BOG-LAND STUDIES 



1 



BOG-LAND STUDIES 



BY 

]r BARLOW 



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M 



THIRD EDITION 



CE^^t^"^'' 






NEW YORK 
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 
1894 




51 



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Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty. 



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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TH' OULD MASTER I 

WALLED OUT: OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG . . 43 

LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S : 

OR, MICK FLYNN DE SENECTUTE ... 73 



BY THE BOG-HOLE I03 



PAST PRAYING FOR : OR, THE SOUPER'S WIDOW . 135 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 1 53 



A CURLEW'S CALL , . . . . . 169 



AP'OO 



TH' OULD MASTER 

n^ 5'e^Aets livat ttoXX'^j/ iirl yaiav 
Movuos ecbv dyaTTTjTds ; 



TH' OULD MASTER 



It mayn't be so much of a place whin ye reckon 

by land — Inish Fay — 
Just a thrifle o' fields and a bog like ; but if ye 

considher the say, 
Sure we 've lashins an' lavins o' that, spreadin' out 

and away like a floor 
To Ratheen at the end of our bay, that 's as far as 

ye '11 look from your door, 
An' that far ye'd scarce look in a week to the 

west, where there isn't, I 'm tould. 
One dhry step 'twixt yer fut an' the States ; 

sartin 'tis the long waves do come rowled 



4 TH' OULD MASTER 

Same as if they 'd set out from the back o' beyant 

an' was thryin' how each 
Could swell up to the sizeablest bigness afore it 

lapt o'er on the beach. 
Ay, we Ve plenty enough o' the say, an* good luck 

to 't ; I don't understand 
How the folk keep continted at all that be settled 

far up on the land. 
Out o' reach o' the tides ; 'tis like livin' wid never 

a chance to be spied. 
And what use is one's life widout chances ? Ye Ve 

always a chance wid the tide ; 
For ye never can tell what 'twill take in its head 

to sthrew round on the shore ; 
Maybe dhrift-wood, or grand bits o' boards, that 

comes handy for splicin' an oar ; 
Or a crab skytin' back o'er the shine o' the wet- 
sure, whatever ye 've found. 
It 's a sort o' diversion thim whiles when ye 're 

starvin' an' sthreelin' around. 



TH' OULD MASTER 



II 

I 'd be noways denyin' the say 's done ill turns 

on us now and agin ; 
But our bit of an Inish, begorrah, I '11 stan' by 

thro' thick an' thro' thin, 
For the pleasant ould times we've had on it is 

more than I '11 ever forget, 
And except for th' ould master's misfortins, belike 

we 'd be havin' thim yet. 
There was none lived continteder ; he in the Big 

House that 's screened from the wind 
Up the hollow, an' ourselves by the shore wid the 

bank lanin' over behind. 
An' the say washin' up to the doors, an' the sod 

runnin' down to our boats, 
Where along o' the weed-dhrifts an' shells there 'd 

be grazin' most whiles for the goats ; 



6 TH' OULD MASTER 

And our pratie-dhrills yonder — ochone, not the 

heart-scalds they Ve been to us since, 
For it 's bare-fut th' ould master 'd ha' walked ere 

he 'd ask for a poor body's pince, 
If so happen — an' ready enough 'tis to happen — 

a bad saison came. 
He was that sort, and young Misther Denis, God 

rest of his soul, was the same. 



Ill 

Yet 'twas just be the raison of him, Misther 
Denis, the throuble began. 
For afore ye 'd believe he shot up from a slip of a 

boy to a man ; 
Not his match in the counthry, sez we ; an' th' - ' 

ould master he thought that the lad 
Bet creation, because, ye percaive, it was all o' the 
childher he had, ' 



TH' OULD MASTER 7 

An' the misthress had died on thim both. So 

'twas rael bad luck to befall 
When young master tuk into his head to be off 

and away from us all, 
An' to make of his fortin in 'Sthralia. Och, sure 

he'd one made fit an' fine, 
But some money they owned, 1 've heard said, had 

got all swallied up in a mine, 
An' that gave him the notion ; an' thin there 's the 

world young chaps fancy to see. 
So th' ould master was fairly disthracted, an' 

couldn't abide the idee. 
And he done all he could to pervint of his goin' 

an' coax him to stay. 
For he got him the natest half-decker that ever 

was sailed in our bay. 
An' for huntin' a mare that 'ud frighten the Saints 

wid the leps that she 'd lep, 
A grand baste — but no ha'porth o' use ; Misther 

Denis he wouldn't be kep', 



8 



TH' OULD MASTER 



An' the sorra a thing good or bad 'ud persuade 

him to bide here contint, 
For he 'd clane set his heart upon goin'. An' so 

one fine mornin' he wint. 



IV 

And we missed him, faith, little an' big, but th 

ould master he missed him the worst, 
It 's a full ten year oulder he looked from that day. 

Howsomedever, at first 
We thried puttin' the best face we could on the 

matter, an' talkin' a dale 
Of how soon he 'd be wid us agin ; an' thin letters 

'ud come by the mail 
Wid discripshins of all Misther Denis was seein' 

an' doin' out there. 
An' that cheered him up finely ; an' whiles he 'd 

step down where the most of us were, 



TH' OULD MASTER 9 

When we'd sit on the pier afther work, an* 'ud 

read us out bits of his news 
From Austhraly; an' thin we'd get gabbin' 

together like say-gulls an' mews 
Whin they're fishin' an' fightin', of all Misther 

Denis 'ud do out of han' 
Once he come home as rich as a Jew ; the good 

stock that he 'd put on the Ian', 
An' the fields he 'd be dhrainin' ; bedad, we 'd the 

whole of it settled an' planned, 
To the names o' the cows, an' which side o' the 

yard the new cart-shed 'ud stand. 
Why, one night young Pat Byrne an' Joe Murphy 

they set to an' boxed up an' down 
About which o' thim both'd get the job to look 

afther the greyhounds he 'd own — 
For we knew Misther Denis 'd be sartin to keep 

an odd few iathe place — 
An' th' ould master seemed rael diverted, an' gave 

thim a shillin' apiece. 



I a TH' OULD MASTER 



But thin, it was maybe a couple o' twelve- 
months from whin he set out, 
We began to misdoubt some bad luck, till at last 

we done worse than misdoubt. 
For the throuble crep' closer each day ; so I 've 

watched a fog dhrift up the shore 
Wipin' out one by one every field glintin' green in 

the sun just before. 
An' to my mind that throuble 's the worst, whin 

the time keeps jog-throttin' along, 
An' because nothin' happens at all, ye get certiner 

somethin 's gone wrong. 
For if grief's to befall ye, I 'd liefer 'twould lape 

on ye suddint when laste 
Ye expect, an' grip hould o' your heart like some 

nathural sort o' wild baste, 



1 



TH' OULD MASTER n 

Than come slitherin' by like a snake, an' be 

prickin' your fut wid its sting 
That 'ill send the death crawlin' in could thro' your 

limbs. But 'twas just such a thing 
Wid the young master's letters. For, first time 

one missed, all we said was the post 
Had delayed it belike ; an' next mail-day we 

said one might aisy be lost 
Comin' that far ; an' time an' agin we 'd be sayin' : 

* Och, musha, if aught 
Would ha' happint him, some one 'd ha' wrote fast 

enough wid the news ' ; but we thought 
It was quare. Till at last we were dhruv to 

believe that he 'd surely been tuk 
Wid some fever, or met wid a hurt, and be 

thravellin' far off, be bad luck. 
And had died all alone, wid the sorra a friend to 

be sendin' home word ; 
Or what else was the raison that year afther year 

tale nor tidings we heard ? 



12 TH' OULD MASTER 



VI 

But it come cruel hard on th' ould master, for, 

livin' so lonesome an' quite. 
He'd got naught to be takin' his mind off the 

throuble by day or by night. 
An' he wouldn't let on he thought bad o' the 

matter ; an' yet all the same, 
He 'd be off wid himself in the boat to the town 

every mornin' that came. 
Like enough wid no chance in the world o' the 

mail bein' in, as he knew ; 
But he 'd set Widdy Doyle at the office a-sortin' 

the letter-bags thro', 
An' Stan' watchin' as if one 'ud make all the differ 

'twixt Heaven and Hell ; 
An' it never was Heaven; for always there 'd be 

the same story to tell : 



TH' OULD MASTER 13 

*No, there's nought for your Honor this day.' 

An' he stopped himself goin' at last, 
And 'ud send the boys over, but, och, ere ye 'd 

think they 'd ha' fairly got past 
Inish Greine, half ways back, he'd be thrampin' 

the pier lookin' out for the boat, 
In a down-pour, mayhap, wid the win' fit to 

blusther the nap off his coat ; 
An' 'twas : ' Sorra a thing for your Honor.' — 

Ochone, every sowl in the place 
Would be heart-vexed to see him creep home be 

himself wid that news in his face. 



VII 

Sure, 'tis waitin' an' hopin' that keep ye tor- 
mented. It 's aisy to say : 
* Och, I '11 put the thoughts out o' me head ; I '11 
not hope it no more from this day ' ; 



14 TH' OULD MASTER 

But next minute, the same as a spark that ye 

think ye 've throd under your heel, 
It flares up, an' flares out, an', begorrah, it laves 

you a desolit feel. 
I remember one day we made sure there was 

news, for the boat we espied 
Wid the boys rowin' mad, fit to reave the ould 

thole-pins clear out of her side. 
An' Long Mick, the big fool, lettin' bawls in the 

bows, and a-wavin' the bag, 
'Cause a velopy 'd come wid a sthrange-coloured 

stamp, an' they 'd settled to brag 
Twas from 'Sthralia. An', there, when th' ould 

master had tore it wid his hands all a-shake, 
It was merely some blathers in print o' the fortius 

a body could make 
On the railroads in France ; an' that mornin' there 

wasn't a word of abuse 
That we didn't be givin' the omadhaun Mick — 

but, sure, where was the use? 



\ 



TH' OULD MASTER 15 

So the years slipt away an' away, an' no news to 

be had good or ill ; 
But it's more than the years, I '11 go bail, did be 

dhrivin' th' ould master down-hill ; 
Twas the wond'rin', an' wishin', an' frettin' that 

whitened the hair on his head, 
When 'twas black as a crow, an' that stooped him, 

when sthraight as a soldier he 'd tread. 



VIII 

An' the last time he ever come down on the 

beach was a dhreary wild day 
In the could heart o' March, whin the win' keeps 

a keen like a dog gone asthray, 
An' the sun 'ill let on to be shinin' wid no taste of 

heat in it yet, 
An' the world seems swep' empty an' waitin' for 

somethin' it never 'ill get. 



1 6 TH' OULD MASTER 

So th' ould master come mopin' along where me 

boat was heeled up on the sands, 
An' sat down wid his hands on the top of his 

stick, an' his chin on his hands ; 
Och, it 's feeble, an' fretted, an' lonesome he looked 

as he stared o'er the gleam 
O' the say ; an' sez he to me : * Connor, I 'm 

thinkin' th' ould Inish 'ill seem 
Quare enough whin there 's ne'er an O'Neil on 't, 

an' we afther ownin' it all 
For these hundrids o' years.' An' : * Yer Honor,' 

sez I, ' that 's not like to befall 
In these hundrids o' years comin' by.' But sez he 

wid a shake of his head : 
* Troth, 'twill happen as soon as I quit ; for since 

he — they 've no hope but he 's dead — 
To the sorra an O'Neil Inish Fay 's bound to go ; 

'tis me uncle's son's son. 
That lives over the wather. He'd plenty, he'd 

plenty — an' I 'd but the one. 



TH' OULD MASTER 17 

Little news I Ve e'er heard o' thim all, an' that 

little no good. I misdoubt 
He'll be playin' the Divil's game here, an' be 

turnin' me poor people out : 
Sure ye '11 mind Misther Denis 'd ha' ne'er thried 

that trade ? He would go, man, would go — 
But in troth it 's hard lines on yous all.' An' sez 

I to meself : * It is so ; 
It 's hard lines ne'er to know from one day to the 

other who '11 be ownin* ye next, 
Whether folks that be kind-like an' wait or a 

grabbin' ould naygur that 's vext 
Till he 's got the thatch burnt o'er your head, an' 

the walls battered down round your hearth ; 
'Tis the same as if God an' the Divil tuk turns 

to be ownin' the earth ' ; 
So thinks I to meself. But, och musha, who'd 

go to be sayin' a word 

Might disthress the poor master thim times ? 

And sez I : * Wid the help o' the Lord, 

B 



1 8 TH' OULD MASTER 

Div'l a sowl save your Honor's own self '11 get the 

chance to be thratin' us hard 
For this great while. An' happen your Honor 'd 

step round now by Gallaher's yard, 
For his pigs is a sight to behold.' An' sez he : 

* Well, to-morrow I might — 
But to-day — it's 'most time I turned home.' The 

Saints shield him, 'twas clear as the light 
That he hadn't the heart to be carin' for aught 

'neath the sun, here or there. 
An' he off wid him home to his big empty house ; 

an' to-morrow came ne'er. 



IX 

Howsomedever, afore very long, oft enough one 
'ud say to oneself 
'Twas belike better luck afther all that th' ould 
master was laid on the shelf. 



ij 



TH' OULD MASTER 19 

Than to have him about and around gettin' 

plagued wid the quareness o' things ; 
For the saisons that come bet the worsest of all 

the wet summers an* springs 
In the lenth o' me life. Och bad cess to the 

could an' the snow an' the win', 
Wid the storms an' the mists an' the polthogues 

o' rain the week out an' week in, 
An' the oats bet to bruss wid the hail, an' the 

bastes starved or dyin' outright, 
Until afther the thundher in June, all the praties 

were sthruck wid the blight, 
As ye couldn't misdoubt if ye wint thro' the 

fields. But th' ould master, ye see, 
Keepin' close in the house all that while, 'cause 

he said he 'd the gout in his knee — 
Tho' 'twas liker the grief at his heart — he'd no 

notion what ruin was in 't ; 
An' so, liefer than have him annoyed, it's the 

greatest ould lies we 'd invint. 



20 TH' OULD MASTER 

For we tould him the harvest and all was as fine 

as a farmer could wish ; 
An' o' times when the most we could do was to 

sort him a sizeable dish 
O' sound praties to serve wid his dinner, we'd 

say that but seldom afore 
Such a crop had been dug on the Inish ; an', 

certin, that lie was no more 
Than the truth ; for 'twas worse than the worst. 

But one mornin' he tuk to declare 
He was sure that the blight was about, for he 'd 

noticed the scent on the air ; 
An' we thought he 'd find out on us thin ; but we 

swore it was merely a heap 
Of haulms rottin' ; and afther that day we 'd the 

sinse to be careful to keep 
A big bonfire o' rubbish alight, if the win' was^ 

that way, close at hand. 
So he 'd smell on'y smoke ; an', the praise be to 

goodness, we chated him grand. 



TH' OULD MASTER 21 

And ourselves would be boilin' the weed, off the 

rocks, that 's the quare ugly thrash, 
All the boilin' in wather an' fire 'II make no more 

than a bitter bad brash ; 
Just to keep o' the sowl in your body, where 

every one keeps it that can, 
Tho' 't might aisy lodge better outside, if we knew 

but the lie o' the Ian'. 

* 

Thin the summer dhreeped off into autumn, the 



same as a soaked sod o' turf 
Smoulders black ere it flickers a flame ; an' the 

storms came wid say-waves an' surf 
Ragin' wild up the beach ; an' the nights long an' 

dark, an' the days cold and dhrear, 
An' we thinkin' besides that th' ould master 'ud 

scarcely last out the ould year. 
Och, I never remimbered whin things on the 

Inish seemed lookin' so black, 
For 'twas ugly the winter 'ud be, wid a cruel 

hungry spring at its back. 



22 TH' OULD MASTER 



But far on in the last of October, the news 

that come suddint one morn 
Nearly dhruv us deminted wid joy ; 'twas too 

good to be true we 'd ha' sworn, 
On'y somehow the Divil himself scarce seemed 

divil enough to go plot 
Such a thrick on th' ould master as that ; if he 

would, he deserves all he 's got. 
*Twas a letter, no less, from young master him- 
self, wrote the next day but one 
From where else on the earth save ould Dublin, in 

reach 'twixt two shines o' the sun ; 
And ourselves had made sure we might thravel 

the world, an' his grave all we'd find 
At its farthest — 'twas grand. An' the letter 

explained how he 'd made up his mind 



TH' OULD MASTER 23 

That th' ould master was gone. For some folk 

comin' sthraight from this counthry, they said, 
Havin' hould of the story's wrong end, that O'Neil 

o' the Inish was dead — 
Inish Fay — no mistake could be in it at all at all 

— every one knew. 
An' thin poor Misther Denis got desprit, not 

doubtin' the throuble was true ; 
For it happint the sweetheart he had wint an' 

died on him too, an' he thought 
All his life was disthroyed, an' the rest just a 

rubbish that mattered for nought. 
So he joined wid a party explorin' some big 

lonely hills afther gould, 
An' they sted there I dunno how long, till the 

fortins they made was untould ; 
But whin once he got back among people, by 

chance the first thing he heard tell 
Was how folks home from Connaught were sayin' 

his father was livin' an' well. 



24 TH' OULD MASTER 

An' wid that he sh'pt into a boat that by luck was 

just puttin' to say, 
Never waitin' to write by the wires. An' belike 

he 'd be here the next day. 



1 



XI 



Whiles I've seen a big elm-tree the storm's 

afther blowin' clane out o' the ground, 
That lay stark where it fell all the long winter 

thro', till the spring-time came round. 
An' the twigs on its boughs in the grass 'ud be 

greenin' wid leaf-buds an' shoots 
Same as if they were wavin' above ; but one knew 

it was up by the roots, 
An' the life dyin' out of it. That 's what I thought 

on whinever I seen 
How th' ould master cheered up wid the news. 

He that wouldn't ha' cared a thraneen 



<i 



TH' OULD MASTER 25 

If they 'd tould him his best cow was dead, or say- 

wather had boiled wid his tay, 
He was askin' for this an' for that, an' discoorsin' 

and orderin' away ; 
An' remimb'rin' whate'er Misther Denis was plased 

wid in th' ould times long sin' : 
* Lest he '11 find things amiss here to-morrow/ sez 

he, ' whin we have him agin.' 
Yet he scarce could set one fut 'fore t' other, tho' 

for pleasure he couldn't keep quite ; 
An' we thought, sure, young master 'd find more 

gone amiss than he 'd aisy set right. 
But the first thing th' ould master 'd go do, was 

to send the boys over beyant 
Wid a boat-load of orders for aught he could think 

Misther Denis might want — 
Ale, an' baccy, an' cheese, an' the round little cakes 

that he liked wid his wine. 
And a rug for his room that the rats had ate up 

into ravels o' twine ; 



26 TH' OULD MASTER 

And a couple o' chairs, 'cause the rest had got 

burnt by some manner o' manes 
When the girls would be short o' dhry sticks for 

the fires ; an' some glass for the panes 
That was out of his windy since ever the cord had 

gev way wid a smash ; 
And his tongs had been broke in two halves, so 

they used it for proppin' the sash — 
And I dunno what else all besides. But before 

we expected thim home, 
They were roarin' like bulls up the beach wid the 

news Misther Denis was come. 
For who else but himself had they met on the 

quays, safe an' sound, on'y grown 
Somethin' oulder ; white sthrakes in his hair — 

* Och,' we sez, * let that story alone : 
Where 'd the lad get white hairs on his head ?' — 

And he 'd bid thim be rowin' back sthraight, 
And himself 'ud be over and afther thim soon, for 

he had but to wait 



TH' OULD MASTER 27 

Till his thraps were on board. There was news ! 

Howsome'er we agreed 'twould be best 
To tell nought for a while to th' ould master, who 'd 

gone to his room for a rest, 
Or he 'd likely enough get his death standin' round 

in the could out o' doors ; 
So we settled to call him whenever we heard the 

first crake o' the oars. 



XII 

Just a still misty day wid no shadow or shine 

was that same Holy Eve ; 
Not a breath on the smooth o' the say, on'y now 

an' agin a soft heave 
Swellin' up here an' there, as ye '11 see in a sheet 

spread to blaich by the hedge, 
That keeps risin' an' fallin' as oft as a breeze creeps 

in under the edge. 



28 TH' OULD MASTER 

Yet, as still as it was, we well knew that thim 

heaves was a sure sign o' win' 
On its way ; an' we all were a-wishin' the boat 'ud 

make haste an' come in ; 
But we watched an' we wished till nigh sunset, an' 

never the sound of a pull. 
Till at last, dhrifted in from the west, came the fog 

like a fleece o' sheep's wool 
Sthreeled down low on the wather, an' hidin' away 

whatsoever it passed 
In its sthreelin' ; and all of a minute, out some- 
where behind it, a blast 
Lep' up howlin' an' rushin' an' flustherin' thro' it, 

an' dhrivin' it on. 
Till afore we knew rightly 'twas comin', it 's every- 

thin' else seemed clane gone. 
For your eyes was 'most blinded wid spray, an' the 

win' deaved your ears wid its roar, 
Not a step could ye look past the foam that seethed 

white to your fut on the shore ; 



TH' OULD MASTER 29 

Sure ye couldn't ha' tould but the Inish was left 

in the wide world alone, 
Just set down be itself in the midst of a mist and 

a great dhreary moan. 



XIII 

An' the thought of us each was the boat ; och, 

however 'd she stand it at all, 
If she'd started an hour or two back, an' been 

caught in the thick o' that squall ? 
Sure it 's lost she was, barrin' by luck it so chanced 

she 'd run under the lee 
O' Point Bertragh or Inish Lonane ; an' 'twas liker 

the crathurs 'ud be 
Crossin' yonder the open, wid never a shelter, but 

waves far an' wide 
Rowlin' one on the other till ye 'd seem at the fut 

of a mad mountain-side. 



30 TH' OULD MASTER 

An' the best we could hope was they 'd seen that 

the weather 'd be turnin' out quare, 
An' might, happen, ha' settled they wouldn't come 

over, but bide where they were. 
Yet, begorrah ! 'twould be the quare weather en- 
tirely, as some of us said, 
That 'ud put Misther Denis off aught that he 'd 

fairly tuk into his head. 
Thin Tim Duigan sez : * Arrah, lads, whisht ! afther 

sailin' thro' oceans o* say. 
Don't tell me he 's naught better to do than get 

dhrowned in our dhrop of a bay.' 
An' the words were scarce out of his mouth, whin 

hard by, thro' a dhrift o' the haze, 
The ould boat we beheld sthrivin' on in the storm 

— och the yell we did raise ! 
An' it 's little we yelled for, bedad ! for, next 

instant, there under our eyes, 
Not a couple o' perch from the pier-end, th' ould 

baste she must take an' capsize. 



TH' OULD MASTER 31 



XIV 

Och ! small blame to thim all if we 'd never seen 

sight of a one o' thim more, 
Wid the waves thumpin' thuds where they fell, 

like the butt-ends o' beams on a door ; 
An' the black hollows whirlin' between, an' the 

dhrift flyin' over thim thick, 
'S if the Divil had melted down Hell, an' was 

stirrin' it up wid a stick. 
But it happint the wave that they met wid was 

flounderin' sthraight to the strand, 
An' just swep' thim up nate on its way, till it set 

thim down safe where the sand 
Isn't wet twice a twelvemonth, no hurt on thim 

all, on'y dhrippin' an' dazed. 
And one come to his feet nigh me door, where 

that mornin' me heifer had grazed. 



32 TH' OULD MASTER 

An', bedad ! 'twas himself, MIsther Denis, stood 

blinkin' an' shakin' the wet 
From his hair : * Hullo, Connor ! ' sez he, ' is it you, 

man ? ' He 'd never forget 
One he'd known. But I'd hardly got hould of 

his hand, an' was wishin' him joy, 
Whin, worse luck, he looked round an' he spied 

Widdy Sullivan's imp of a boy. 
That a wave had tuk off of his feet, an' was floatin' 

away from the beach. 
And he screechin' an' sthretchin' his arms to be 

saved, but no help was in reach. 
An' as soon as the young master he seen it, he 

caught his hand out o' me own : 
* Now, stand clear, man,' sez he, * would ye have 

me be lavin' the lad there to dhrown ? ' 
An' wid that he throd knee-deep in foam-swirls. 

Ochone ! but he gev us the slip, 
Runnin' sheer down the black throat o' Death, an* 

he just afther 'scapin' its grip. 



TH' OULD MASTER 33 

For the wild says come flappin' an' boomin' an' 

smotherin' o'er him, an' back 
In the lap o' their ragin' they swep' him as light 

as a wisp o' brown wrack. 
An' they poundin' the rocks like sledge-hammers, 

an' clatterin' the shingle like chains ; 
Ne'er the live sowl they 'd let from their hould till 

they 'd choked him or bet out his brains, 
Sure an' certin. And in swung a wave wid its 

welthers o' wather that lept 
Wid the roar of a lion as it come, an' hissed low 

like a snake as it crept 
To its edge, where it tossed thim, the both o' thim. 

Och ! an' the little spalpeen 
Misther Denis had gript be the collar, he jumped 

up the first thing we seen. 
While young master lay still — not a stir — he was 

stunned wid a crack on the head — 

Just a flutter o' life at his heart — but it 's kilt he 

was, kilt on us dead. 

C 



34 TH' OULD MASTER 



XV 

An' so that was the end o'f it all. An' the 

sorrowful end tubbe sure, 
Whin our luck was turned back into throuble no 

power in creation could cure. 
There he lay, 'twixt the sod an' the foam, wid the 

spray flingin' sparkles in the sun. 
For the storm had throoped off in a hurry, contint 

wid what mischief was done, 
An' the last o' the day in the west from a chink o' 

clear gold on the rim 
Sent low rays slantin' red o'er the fall o' the say 

to the white face of him 
That was still as the image asleep o' the lad we 'd 

remimbered so long ; 
Never oulder a day in those years. An' ourselves 

standin' round in a throng 



TH' OULD MASTER 35 

Kep' a clack like the gulls overhead that were 

flickerin' the light wid their wings, 
And as much wit in one as the other. Och ! sure 

there 's no grief but it brings 
Friends to thravel its road. For while yet we 

were feelin' his hands stiff'nin' could, 
An' were sayin' the fine winsome lad, an' the heart- 
break it was to behould. 
Comes ould Peggy, the housekeeper, throttin' to 

say that th' ould master had woke, 
And had sent her to thry was there news. News ? 

It seemed like the Divil's own joke. 
An' what ailed him to wake? He'd a right to 

ha' slep', wid that news at his door. 
Till the world's end. * Is 't news ye 'd be afther ? ' 

sez Mick. * Ay, there 's news here galore ; 
But it's news that I wouldn't be tellin' while e'er 

I 've a tongue in me head ; 
I 'd as lief stick a knife in his heart, an' he lyin' 

asleep on his bed.' 



36 TH' OULD MASTER 

An' sez Gallaher : * Musha, what need to be tellin' 

him yet ? Better send 
For his Riverence beyant that consoles ye whin 

throuble 's past hopin' to mend. 
An' till thin there might some one step up an' let 

on nothing 'd happint below, 
To contint him.' An' we all thought the same, 

an' yet no one was wishful to go ; 
For we feared he might somehow get hould o' the 

truth. Then me brother, sez he : 
' Sure here's Pat, it's colloguin' a dale wid th' ould 

master he is ' — manin' me — 
' He 's the man to be sendin' ; forby he '11 tell lies 

be the dozen as fast 
As a dog throts, will Pat' So they talked till 

they had me persuaded at last ; 
And I thrapesed off up to the House. God for- 
give me, each step that I wint, 
I was schemin' the quarest onthruths I could 

throuble me mind to invint. 



TH' OULD MASTER 37 



XVI 

But I tould him the sorra a one, as ye '11 see ; 

'twas no doin' o' mine. 
For whin into his room I was come, that seemed 

dark, passin' out o' the shine 
O' the sunset just glimmerin' around yet, th' ould 

master laned up where he lay 
Afther takin' a bit of a rest on the bed, for the 

most o' that day 
He 'd been creepin' about to get everythin' readied 

up dacint 'gin e'er 
The young master was home. Goodness help 

him, it 's time he 'd enough an' to spare ; 
No more need to be hurryin' for that than for 

Doomsday, if on'y he 'd guessed — 
I was sayin', whin I 'd knocked at his door, an' 

slipped in to decaive him me best, 



38 TH' OULD MASTER 

It 's beyant an' forby me his eyes kep' on gazin' 

an' shinin' ; I thought 
Mayhap some one was foUyin' behind me, but 

whin I looked round I seen nought, 
Ne'er a sowl save meself, that I dunna believe he 

tuk heed on at all. 
An' sez he : ' Och, thin, Denis, me lad, so ye 're 

here? Why, the step in the hall 
Sounded strange-like ; and I to be listenin', an' 

never to think it was you. 
But, in troth, till ye stood in me sight, I 'd no aisier 

believe me luck true 
Than if sthraight ye were come from the Dead. 

. For the time, lad, wint wonderful slow, 
An' it seems like the lenth o' me life since ye left 

us this great while ago ; 
An' sure only to look down a long lenth o' time 
sthrikes the could to your heart, | 

Let alone whin the days sthretch away, each like 
each, an' nought keeps thim apart 



I 



TH' OULD MASTER 39 

Save the nights, when ye sleep scarce enough for 

a dhrame that as soon as ye wake 
Sets ye grievin'. Thim whiles there 's no end to 

the notions an ould body '11 take — 
And I larned, livin' lonesome, 'twas ould I had 

grown. If I tould ye the half 
O' what all I was vexed wid supposin' an' dhreadin', 

ye couldn't but laugh. 
On'y one thing I 've settled, no laughin' about it, 

but certin an' sure : 
I '11 not lose ye that long, lad, agin, for it 's more 

than me mind can endure. 
True enough, ye 're but young in your life, and it 's 

best maybe 's waitin' unknown 
Worlds away from our bit of an Inish ; all 's one, 

ye '11 ne'er quit it alone, 
For there 's plenty no younger than me must be 

rovin' as ould as they are — 
It's together we'll go, you and I, lad, next time 

that ye 're thravellin' so far. 



40 TH' OULD MASTER 

Ay, together/ sez he. An* wid that come two wails 
o' the wind, an' between 

Sthruck a cry that was wailed by no win' ; 'twas _ 
the girls below raisin' a keen ; 

But he laned his head back lookin' plased an' con- 
tint ; an' they kep' keenin' on. 

They were keenin' for more than they meant all 
the while, for th' ould master was gone. 



XVII 



So I 'd sorra a hand in the matter meself, I may 

truly declare. 
'Twas th' Almighty's own notion that night to 

decaive him, if decaivin' it were. 
So whatever misfortins th'ould master experienced, 

I hould in a way 
He 'd the bettermost sort o' bad luck — an* that 's 

somethin' — because ye may say 



TH' OULD MASTER 41 

His worst throuble as good as ne'er chanced him ; 

ne'er come to his hearin' or sight, 
And a hurt that ye feel unbeknownst, as the sayin' 

is, is apt to be light. 
An' bedad he 's well out of it all ; it 's ourselves 

have the raison to grieve 
While the say meets the shore for what happint 

this Inish that black Holy Eve. 
But I '11 whisht ; for I 'm thinkin' when things have 

determined to run to the bad, 
There's no use in discoorsin' an' frettin' save on'y 

to dhrive yourself mad ; 
Since the storms, or the blight, or the rint comes 

agin one wherever one goes, 
Till one takes the last turnin'. An' thin if it 's true, 

as some people suppose, 
Better luck follows thim that are lavin' than thim 

that are bidin' behind — 
Sure it 's off ye '11 slip one o' these days, an' what 

need to be throublin' your mind ? 



WALLED OUT 
OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG 

OiiK 6pap, dXX' Oirap iadXbv 6 rot, T^reKitJixivov eVrai ; 



WALLED OUT 

OR, ESCHATOLOGY IN A BOG 



In Jast September it was, whin the weather '11 

be mostly grand, 
Wid the sunshine turnin' the colour o' corn all over 

the land, 
An' the two young gintlemen came to shoot wid 

their guns an' their dogs, 
A-thrampin' just for divarsion about the hills an' 

the bogs. 
And I thramped afther thim, tho' it 's little divarsion 

I had, 
Carryin' the baskits an' all ; but sure it 's meself 

was glad 



45 



46 WALLED OUT 

To earn the shillin's at sunset, an' iligant loonch 

be the way ; 
Mate, an' bread, an' a dhrop to dhrink — ye needed 

no more that day. 
For, tho' 'twas thick o' the harvest, down here the 

bogs an' the hills 
Lave on'y narrow slips o' fields for the furrows an' 

pratie dhrills ; 
Terrible quick they 're raped an' dug ; but what 

should the farmer do ? 
If there 's on'y work for wan, he can't find wages 

for two. 



II 

An' wanst we were restin' a bit in the sun on the 
smooth hillside, 
Where the grass felt warm to your hand as the 
fleece of a sheep, for wide 



WALLED OUT 47 

As ye 'd look overhead an' around, 'twas all a-blaze 

and a-glow, 
An' the blue was blinkin' up from the blackest 

bog-holes below ; 
An' the scent o' the bogmint was sthrong on the 

air, an' never a sound 
But the plover's pipe that ye '11 seldom miss by a 

lone bit o' ground. 
An' he laned — Misther Pierce — on his elbow, an' 

Stared at the sky as he smoked. 
Till just in an idle way he sthretched out his hand 

an' sthroked 
The feathers o' wan of the snipe that was kilt an' 

lay close by on the grass ; 
An' there was the death in the crathur's eyes like 

a breath upon glass. 
An' sez he : * It 's quare to think that a hole ye 

might bore wid a pin 
'111 be wide enough to let such a power o' dark- 
ness in 



48 WALLED OUT 

On such a power o' light ; an' it 's quarer to think/ 

sez he, 
*That wan o' these days the Hke is bound to 

happen to you an' me.' 
Thin Misther Barry, he sez : * Musha, how 's wan 

to know but there 's light 
On t' other side o' the dark, as the day comes 

afther the night?' 
An' * Och,' sez Misther Pierce, 'what more's our 

knowin' — save the mark — 
Than guessin' which way the chances run, an' thinks 

I they run to the dark ; 
Or else agin now some glint of a bame 'd ha' come 

slithered an' slid ; 
Sure light 's not aisy to hide, an' what for should 

it be hid ? ' 
Up he stood wid a sort o' laugh ; ' If on light,' sez 

he, ' ye 're set, 
Let 's make the most o' this same, as it 's all that 

we 're like to get/ 



WALLED OUT 49 



III 

Thim were his words, as I minded well, for 

often afore an' sin' 
The 'dintical thought 'ud bother me head that 

seemed to bother him thin ; 
An' many 's the time I 'd be wond'rin' whatever it 

all might mane. 
The sky, an' the Ian', an' the bastes, an' the rest 

o' thim plain as plain, 
And all behind an' beyant thim a big black 

shadow let fall ; 
Ye '11 sthrain the sight out of your eyes, but there 

it stands like a wall. 
* An' there,' sez I to meself, * we 're goin' wherever 

we go. 

But where we '11 be whin we git there it 's never a 

know I know.' 

D 



50 WALLED OUT 

Thin whiles I thought I was maybe a sthookawn 

to throuble me mind 
Wid sthrivin' to comprehind onnathural things o' 

the kind ; 
An' Quality, now, that have larnin', might know 

the rights o' the case, 
But ignorant wans like me had betther lave it in 

pace. 



IV 

Priest, tubbe sure, an' Parson, accordin' to what 

they say, 
The whole matther 's plain as a pikestaff an' clear 

as the day, 
An' to hear thim talk of a world beyant ye'd 

think at the laste I 

They 'd been dead an' buried half their lives, an* 

had thramped it from west to aist ; 



WALLED OUT 51 

An' who 's for above, an' who 's for below they 've 

as pat as if they could tell 
The name of every saint in Heaven an' every 

divil in Hell. 
But cock up the likes of thimselves to be settlin' 

it all to their taste — 
I sez, and the wife she sez I 'm no more nor a 

haythin baste — 
For mighty few o' thim's rael Quality, musha, 

they 're mostly a pack 
O' playbians, each wid a tag to his name an' a 

long black coat to his back ; 
An' it's on'y romancin' they are belike; a man 

must stick be his trade, 
An' they git their livin' by lettin' on they know 

how wan's sowl is made. 
And in chapel or church they 're bound to know 

somethin' for sure, good or bad. 
Or where 'd be the sinse o' their preachin' an' 

prayers an' hymns an' howlin' like mad ? 



52 WALLED OUT 

So who 'd go mindin' o' thim ? barrin' women, in 

coorse, an' wanes, 
That beheve 'most aught ye tell thim, if they 

don't understand what it manes — 
Bedad, if it worn't the nathur o' women to want 

the wit. 
Parson an' Priest I'm a-thinkin' might shut up 

their shop an' quit. » 

But, och, it 's lost an' disthracted the crathurs 'ud 

be widout 
Their bit o' divarsion on Sundays whin all o' thim 

gits about, 
Cluth'rin' an' plutth'rin' together like hins, an' a- 

roostin' in rows. 
An' meetin' their frins an' their neighbours, an' 

wearin' their dacint clothes. 

An' sure it's quare that the clergy can't ever 

agree to keep 

Bj 
Be tellin' the same thrue story, sin' they kno^ 

such a won'erful heap ; | 



WALLED OUT 53 

For many a thing Priest tells ye that Parson sez 

is a lie, 
An' which has a right to be wrong, the divil a 

much know I, 
For all the differ I see 'twixt the pair o' thim 'd 

fit in a nut : 
Wan for the Union, an' wan for the League, an' 

both o' thim bitther as sut. 
But Misther Pierce, that 's a gintleman born, an' 

has college larnin' and all. 
There he was starin' no wiser than me where the 

shadow stands like a wall. 



An' soon afther thin, it so happint, things grew 
so conthrary an' bad, 
I fell to wond'rin' a dale if beyant there 's aught 
betther at all to be had ; 



54 WALLED OUT 

For the blacker this ould world looks, an' the 

more ye 're bothered an' vexed, 
The more ye '11 be cravin' an' longin' for somethin' 

else in the next ; 
While whinever there 's little that ails ye, an' all 

goes slither as grase, 
Ye don't so much as considher, bedad, if there's 

e'er such a place. 
The same as a man comin' home from his work of 

a winther's night, 
Whin the wind's like ice, an' the snow an' the 

rain have him perished outright, 
His heart '11 be set on a good turf blaze up the 

chimney roarin' an' red. 
That '11 put the life in him agin afore he goes to 

his bed ; 
Tho' on summer evenin's, whin soft as silk w, 

every breath that wint. 
He 'd never have axed for a fire, but turned to his 

sleep contint. 



WALLED OUT 55 



VI 

The first thing that wint agin us, an' sure we 

were rale annoyed, 
Was when Smithson, he that 's steward at the Big 

House, he tuk an' desthroyed 
Rexy,^our Httle white dog, that we 'd rared from 

no more than a pup, 
For a matther o' four or five year, an' had kep' 

him an' petted him up. 
Huntin' the sheep? If ye'd seen him ye'd know 

they were tellin' a lie, 
Him that wasn't the size of a rabbit, an' wouldn't 

ha' hurted a fly. 
And the frinliest baste, morebetoken, ye 'd find in 

a long day's walk. 
An' knowin' an' sinsible, too, as many a wan that 

can talk. 



56 WALLED OUT 

I might come home early or late, yet afore I was 

heard or seen, 
He 'd be off like a shot an' meet me a dozen perch 

down the boreen ; ^ 
An' whiles ye 'd be kilt wid laughin', that quare 

wor his ways an' his thricks — 
But there he lay stone dead be the gate at the 

back o' Hourigan's ricks ; 
For it's creepin' home the crathur was in hopes to 

die near his frins, 
On'y he couldn't creep no furdher wid the leg of 

him smashed into splins. 
An' och, but the house was lonesome whin we 'd 

buried him down be the dyke, 
An' the childer bawled thimselves sick, for they 

thought that there wasn't his like ; 
An' just this night, comin' up to the door, I was 

thinkin' I 'd give a dale 
For the sound of his bark, an' the pat of his paws, 

an' the wag of his tail. 

^ A narrow lane with high banks. 



WALLED OUT 57 



VII 

An' thin the winther began, on a suddint it 

seemed, for the trees 
Were flamin' like fire in the wood whin it tuk to 

perish an' freeze ; 
An' thro' your bones like a knife wint the win' 

that come keenin' around, 
An' afther that wid the pours o' rain we were 

fairly dhrowned. 
For the wather 'd be runnin' in sthrames beneath 

the step at the door, 
An' t'ould thatch that's thick wid holes let it 

dhrip in pools on the floor. 
Till sorra the fire 'ud burn, wid the peat-sods no 

betther than mud. 
Since the stacks thimselves outside seemed 

meltin' away in the flood. 



58 WALLED OUT 

But the worst of it was those times, that, what 

wid the wet an' the frost, 
Ne'er a hand's turn could be done in the fields, so 

wan's wages were lost. 
Many's the week I could scarce git a job from 

wan end to the other, 
An' many 's the night they wint hungry to bed, 

both childher an' mother — 
An', begorra, the hardest day's work a man ever 

did is to sit 
Wid his hands before him at home, whin the 

childher haven't a bit. 
Thin the wife tuk sick, an' was mortial bad, 

an' cravin' a dhrink as she lay. 
An' I couldn't so much as git her, the crathur, a 

sup o' tay ; 
An' the floor was says o' mud, an' the house a 

smother o' smoke. 
Till between thim all, begorra, me heart it was |j 

fairly broke. ^ i 



WALLED OUT 59 



VIII 

But I mind wan Sathurday's night, whin we 

just were starved wid the could, 
Me mother, she that we keep, an' that 's growin' 

terrible ould, 
All of a heap she was crouched be the hearth 

that was black as your grave, 
For clane gone out was the fire ; and her ould 

head never 'ud lave 
Thrimblin' on like a dhrop o' rain that 's ready to 

fall from the row, 
The faster it thrimbles an' thrimbles the sooner 

it is to go. 
And her poor ould hands were thrimblin' as she 

sthretched thim out for the hate, 
For she'd gone too blind to see that there wasn't 

a spark in the grate ; 



6o WALLED OUT 

Nor bit nor sup she'd had but a crust o' dhry 

bread that day, 
'Cause our praties had rotted on us, an' we 'd had 

to throw thim away ; 
An' I knowed she was vexed, for, sure, it's but 

doatin' she is afther all. 
And 'ill fret like a child whin she feels that her 

slice is cut skimpy an' small ; 
But other whiles she 'd be grievin that we 'd not 

got quit of her yet. 
An' misdoubtin' we grudged away from the 

childher each morsel she 'd get. 
An' watchin' her sittin' there, an' rememb'rin* 

the life she 'd led. 
For me father dhrank, an' she 'd throuble enough 

to keep the pack of us fed, 
An' never the comfort she 'd now, an' she grown 

feeble an' blind — 
I couldn't but think 'twas a cruel bad job for such 

as she if behind 



WALLED OUT 6i 

The blackness over beyant there was nought but 

could for the could, 
An' dark for the dark — no new world at all to 

make amends for the ould. 
Tho' in troth it 'ud have to be the quarest world 

ye could name 
That 'ud make it worth wan's while to ha' lived 

in the likes o' this same. 



IX 

But the dhrame I dhreamt that night was as 

sthrange as sthrange, for thin 
I thought I had come to a place whose aquil I 

never was in, 
An' nobody 'd tould me 'twas out o' this world, 

yet as soon as I came 
Just o' meself I knew it, as people will in a 

dhrame. 



62 WALLED OUT 

An' it looked an iligant counthry, an' all in a 

glimmerin' green, 
The colour o' leaves in the spring, wid a thrimble 

o' mist between ; 
An' the smell o' the spring was in it, but the 

light that sthramed over all 
Was liker the shine of a sunset whin leaves are 

beginnin' to fall. 



X 

An' two were talkin' together, that must ha' 

been standin' near, 
Tho' out o' me sight they kep' ; an' their voices 

were pleasant to hear. 
An' wan o' them sez to the other: 'It's this I 

don't undherstand. 
The sinse o' this wall built yonder around an' 

about the land ' — 



WALLED OUT 63 

An', sure, as he spoke I saw where it glimpsed 

thro' the boughs close by — 
' For,' sez he, ' it hides our world, as the thruth is 

hid be a lie, 
From every sowl that 's alive on the weary earth 

below, 
Till ne'er such a place there might be at all, for 

aught they can know. 
But grand it 'ud be some mornin' to make it melt 

off like the haze, 
An' lave thim a sight o' this land that they're 

comin' to wan o' these days. 
For look ye at Ireland, now, where they 're just in 

a desperit state, 
Wid the people sleepin' on mud, an' wantin' the 

morsel to ait ; 
If they knew there was betther in store, I dunno 

what harm could be in 't, 
Or what it 'ud do but hearten thim up, an' keep 

thim a bit contint' 



64 WALLED OUT 



XI 

Thin t'other: *Mind you, there's many that's 

new to this place,' sez he, 
' Comes axin' the same as yourself. But considher 

the way it 'ud be. 
For whin wanst we downed wid the wall, an* 

nothin' was left to pervint 
The poor folks yonder beholdin' the grandeur 

we 've here fornint, 
An' nearer a dale, belike, than they'd ever ha' 

thought or believed, 
Who are the fools that 'ud stay any more where 

they 're throubled an' grieved, 
An' wouldn't be off wid thim here ? Why, now, 

whin there 's nought but a vast 
O' shadow an' blackness afore him who looks to 

hi^ death an' past 



WALLED OUT 65 

Why, even so, there 's a few comes in that life wid 

its weary work 
Has dhruv intirely mad, till they lept to their ends 

in the dark. 
' An' in Ireland, sure, this instant, there 's crowds 

o' thim sailin' bound 
Off to the States an' 'Sthralia, that's half o' the 

whole world round, 
Miles an' miles thro' the waves an' storms, an' whin 

they 've got there, bedad, 
No such won'erful lands, but just where their livin's 

aisier had. 
An' it 's mostly the young folks go, so the ould do 

be frettin' sore. 
For thim that are gone they doubt 'ill come home 

in their time no more ; 
An' dhreary as e'er the long winther's night is the 

lonesome summer's day, 

Whin there's never a stir in the house, an' the 

childher are over the say. 

E 



66 WALLED OUT 

* And, arrah now, wouldn't it be the worst day 

that ould Ireland has known. 
Whin she 'd waken an' find all the people had 

quitted an' left her alone ? 
Never a voice to be heard, or a hover o' smoke to 

be spied, 
An' sorra a sowl to set fut on the green o' the grass 

far an' wide, 
Till the roads ran lone thro' the Ian' as the sthrame 

that most desolit flows. 
An' the bastes, sthrayed away in the fields, grew 

as wild as the kites an' the crows, 
An' no wan to care what became o' the counthry 

left starin' an' stark — 
But that 's how 'twould happen if ever we let thim 

look clear thro' the dark.' 



WALLED OUT 67 



XII 

An' the other, sez he : * Thrue for ye ; but what 
seems sthrange to me yet 
Is the notions they 've learned down yonder in spite 

* 

o' this screen ye Ve set ; 
For there's many hears tell of a pleasant place 

where a man 'ill go whin he dies, 
An' some be that certin sure, ye 'd think they 'd 

seen it all wid their eyes.' 



XIII 

'The raison o' that,' sez he, *is, we wouldn't let 
thim despair, 
Cliver an' clane, any more than we 'd show thim 
the whole of it clear ; 



68 WALLED OUT 

So wanst in a while we Ve given to some poor 

crathur o' thim 
A glimpse at this place, but on'y lapt up in a mist 

like an' dim. 
An' as soon as it slips from their sight 'tis dhrowned 

in the darkness deep, 
Till sometimes they doubt afther all if 'twas aught 

but a dhrame in their sleep. 
An' the rest spy nothin' at all, but they hear from 

the folks that do, 
An' they wish it so bad that often they believe 

they believe it 's thrue. 
*But suppose, now, wan that was hungry could 

watch unbeknownst thro' a chink >. 

Where some had a faste preparin', the finest ye 

ever could think, 
If he thought he 'd a chance o' the thrate, sure it 's - 

quiet an' still he 'd wait, • 

For fear if he came ere they called they 'd be puttin' 



him out of it sthraight' 



'» 



i 



WALLED OUT 69 



XIV 

That 's all their discoorse I remember, for thin, 

as sure as I 'm born. 
It was Rexy's bark that I heard — no other haste's, 

I '11 be sworn : 
And I couldn't tell ye the pleasure I tuk in 't, for 

somehow the sound 
Seemed givin' a nathural feel to whatever I seen 

around. 
And I just was thinkin' : * It 's mad wid joy, poor 

Rexy, he 'd be if he knew 
There was wan of us come from th' ould place at 

home ' — whin, och wirrasthrew. 
All in a minute I opened me eyes where I lay on 

the floor, 
An' the child was keenin' away, an' the wind 

moanin' under the door, 



70 WALLED OUT 

An' the puddle was freezed by the hearth, that 

hadn't a spark to show, 
An' outside in the could daylight the air was 

a-flutther wid snow. 
An' the black bank sthraked wid white like the 

bars on a magpie's wing — 
For sorra a word o' thruth was in't, an' I 'd nought 

but dhramed the thing. 



XV 

Sorra a word o' thruth — yet some sez that they 've 

never a doubt 
But there 's plenty o' thruth in a dhrame, if ye turn 

it the right side out : 
An' I mind me mother, wan night she dhreamt of 

a ship on the say. 
An' next mornin' her Micky, the souldier, came 

home that was years away. 



i 



WALLED OUT 71 

Thin a notion I have, as I woke, I 'd heard wan o' 

thim two inside 
Sayin' : * Sleep, that 's the chink for a glimpse, but 

death, that 's the door set wide ' ; 
An' whin things do be cruel conthrary, wid could 

an' the hunger an' all, 
Some whiles I fall thinkin' : * Sure, maybe, it 's 

on'y a bit o' their wall.' 
So p'rhaps it 's a fool that I am, but many 's the 

time, all the same, 
I sez to meself I 'd be wishful for just a dhrame o' 

that dhrame. 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 
OR, MICK FLYNN DE SENECTUTE 

, . . IloXXtt ixkv at ixaKpaX vL/Jiipai KariOevro dr} 
XiJn-as iyyvripd), ra ripirovTa S^oiK &v tSois Sirov 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

OR, MICK FLYNN DE SENECTUTE 



Betther nor thirty year sin' Barney M'Gurk 

set up 
Here by the ould cross-roads, and, begorra, there 's 

many a sup 
I 've tuk sittin' snug be the hearth in the corner 

he calls me own, 
For all it 's a quare bad custhomer Barney '11 ha' 

found me, ochone, 
This long while back, bringin' seldom or never the 

pinny to spind ; 
But Barney M'Gurk isn't wan that 'ud disremem- 

ber a frind. _ 

Y5 



76 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

So many 's the warm I Vc had in the could o' the 

winther's night, 
For he keeps up the grandest o' fires ; ye '11 see 

the glim of it bright 
Away down the bog ; it 's the divil to pass be the 

door in the dark, 
Whin ye doubt if at home on the bit o' wet floor 

ye '11 find ever a spark. 
And oft o' these summer evenin's I 've watched 

how the moon 'ill stale 
O'er yonder black ridge o' Knockreagh like the 

ghost of a little white sail, 
Wid never a beam to her more than a ball o' the 

thistle-down, 
Till she 'd drink every dhrop o' the light from the 

breadths o' the air aroun', 
An' shine like a bubble o' silver that swells an' 

swells, an' thin 
Float off thro' the thick o' the stars. But I'll 

never watch her agin. 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 77 



II 

Barney, he 'd always the luck from the time we 

were on'y gossoons. 
Look at our Band now : I always was terrible 

fond o' the tunes, 
Yet if ever I thried at a note, it 's each finger I 

had seemed a thumb, 
While Barney, just git me the lad that 'ud bate 

him at batin' the dhrum, 
Th' ould sargint, who'd soldiered in Agypt an' 

Injy, he swore be his sowl 
There wasn't the rigimint marchin' but he 'd aquil 

it rowlin' the rowl. 
Och ! it 's thim was the great times entirely foi 

Barney, an' me, an' the boys. 
An' we kep' the neighbours alive wid the capers we 

had an' the noise, 



78 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

For there 'd scarce be a moonshiny night but we 'd 

thramp as far afther our Band 
As afther the plough in the field whin ye 're 

trenchin' an acre o' land. 
Bangin' away, wid the bits o' spalpeens all throt- 

throttin' beside, 
An' wishin' their legs were the lenth to keep step, 

an' the doors flyin' wide 
Wid the girls lookin' out ; an' the moonbeams so 

still on the fields till we come, 
Ye might think all the sounds in the earth had run 

into each boom of our dhrum. 



Ill 

But, throth, I remember the mornin' we started 
for Ballynagraile 
To fetch home ould Andy O'Rourke, who'd a 
twelvemonth in Limerick jail 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 79 

For fright'nin' the bailiffs — divil mend thim — that 

dhruv off his mare for the tithe, 
And Andy he bid thim begone, or he 'd shorten 

their legs wid his scythe. 

So we all were assembled to meet him ; ye never 
beheld such a throng, 

Down the lenth o' the sthreet, wid folk standin' 

to see us come marchin' along ; 
'Twas as pleasant a mornin' in April as ever shone 

out o' the sky, 
An' the brass of our insthruments gleamin' was fit 

to ha' dazzled your eye ; 
But the polis looked cross as the dogs, 'cause they 

couldn't be rights interfere 
To hinder our lads o' their playin' ; bedad ! an' ye 

felt, whin ye 'd hear 
How they wint like the thundher an' lightnin', 

that afther the dhrum an' the fife 
Ye could step to the end o' the world, wid all the 

pleasure in life. 



8o LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

An' close where I waited, I mind, there came 

hobblin' outside of his door 
An ould ancient man, I can't tell ye his name — 

I 'd ne'er seen him before — 
All doubled in two, wid a beard like a fleece, an' 

scarce able to stand, 
For he shook like a bough in the win', tho' he 

laned on a stick in each hand. 
But to notice the glint of his eye, whin they 

sthruck up Saint Pathrick ; bedad. 
If he'd had thim same eyes in his feet, it's a jig 

he 'd ha' danced there like mad ; 
On'y just the wan minute ; for thin he stared 

round, seemin' sthrange to the place. 
Till he turned away back to his door wid a quare 

sort o' look on his face. 
As if he was layin' his hand off o' somethin' he 

liefer 'ud hould, 
An' soft to himself I heard him : * Sure I 'm ould,* 

sez he, ' sure I 'm ould.' 



I 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 8i 



IV 

There 's some things that run on in your mind 

like a thread that 's onevenly spun 
Down your coat-sleeve ; for, afther these years, I 

'most see him stand clear in the sun ; 
But now, be worse luck, I can tell what I couldn't 

ha' tould that day — 
The notion he had in his head, whin he said it 

an' turned away. 
To be ould — sure, considh'rin' the time ye '11 

be growin' so before your own eyes. 
It 's quare how whinever ye think o't it seems like 

a sort o' surprise ; 
My belief's that if people were sevinty the very 

first day they were born. 

They 'd never git used to it rightly, and if, be odd 

chance, some fine morn 

F 



82 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

The ouldest ould man in the counthry would find 

whin he wakened that he 
Was a slip of a lad, he'd just feel it the nathur'lest 

thing that could be. 
So it 's noways too sthrange if wan 's sometimes 

forgittin' awhile how things stand, 
Like the ould chap at Ballynagraile, whin his 

mind was tuk up wid our Band. 



But the marchin' around, an' the tunes, an' the 

thricks that the young fellows play, 
'Tisn't thim ye think badly o' missin', at laste on'y 

wanst in a way ; 
For, as far as I know be experience, ye '11 mostly 

be plased nigh as well 
If the childher Ve their bit o' divarsion the same 

as ye had yoursel' ; 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 83 

An' your legs get so stiff of an evenin', that afther 

your day's work is done 
Ye 're contint wid the full o' your pipe at the door, 

and a sight o' the fun. 
It's your work, your day's work; that's the 

mischief. It 's little enough I knew. 
Whin the sun had me scorched to the bone, or the 

win' maybe perished right thro'. 
In the field or the bog, as might chance, an' I 'd 

think to meself I could wish 
Nought betther than never agin to be loadin' a 

cart or a kish — 
It 's little I knew ; for, sure, now, whin I couldn't 

to save o' me soul 
So much just as carry a creel to our heap from 

the next bog-hole, 
The two eyes I 'd give out o' me head to be peltin' 

away at it still, 
Mowin' a meadow, or cuttin' the turf, ay, or 

ploughin' up hill. 



84 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

For I hate to be hearin' the lads turnin' out whin 

the dawn blinks in, 
And I lyin' there like a log wid the sorra a job 

to begin, 
Barrin' helpin' to ait up the praties, an' they none 

too plenty perhaps ; 
Sure, the pig 's worther keepin', poor baste, for it 's 

fatter he gits on his scraps. 
So at home be the hearth-stone I stick, or I creep 

up an' down be the wall. 
An' the day feels as long as a week, an' there 

seems no sinse in it all. 



VI 

And in throth I 've no call to be laid on the shelf 

yet, as ould as I be : 

There 's Thady O'Neill up above, that 's a year or 

so senior to me, 



I 



1 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 85 

An' passin' his meadow just now, I seen it was 

mowin', and bedad, 
There 's himself in it stoopin' away as limber an' 

soople as a lad. 
An' the Widdy Maclean, that was married afore I 

was three fut high, 
She '11 thramp her three mile to the town every 

market day that comes by. 
'Twas the fever, last Lent was a twelvemonth, 

disthroyed me ; I 'm fit for nought since. 
The way of it was : Our ould cow had sthrayed off 

thro' the gap in the fence, 
An' Long Daly he met me an' tould me. Sez he : 

* An' ye '11 need to make haste. 
If it 's dhry-fut ye 'd find her this night' For away 

o'er the hills to the aist 
The hail-showers were slantin' in sthrakes ; an' 

thin wanst clane across wid a swipe 
Wint the lightnin'. An' : * Look-a,' sez he, ' there 's 

Saint Pether a-kindlin' his pipe ; 



86 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

That 'ill take a good sup to put out/ An', thrue 

for him, he 'd scarce turned his back, 
Whin it settled to polther an' pour, an' the sky 

overhead grew as black 
As the botthomless pit ; not a stim could I see, 

nor a sight o' the baste, 
But, sthravadin' about in the bog, I slipped into a 

hole to me waist. 
An' was never so nigh dhrownin' dead, forby bein' 

dhrenched to the skin ; 
So I groped me way home thro' the dark in the 

teeth of a freezin' win'. 
An' next mornin' I couldn't move finger nor fut, 

all me limbs were that sore, 
And I lay there a-ravin' like wild in me bed for a 

month an' more ; 
For me head was on fire, an' the pains was like 

gimlits an' knives in me bones. 
Till the neighbours a-goin' the road 'ud be hearin' 

me groans an' me moans. 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 87 

An' thin, whin I 'd over'd the worst, as the 

Docther 'd not looked for at all, 
Sure, the strenth was gone out o' me clane, an' I 

scarcely was able to crawl, 
An' that stooped, any rapin'-hook 's sthraighter 

than me, an' the jints o' me stift. 
An' me fingers as crookt as the claws of a kite, wid 

no use in thim lift ; 
An' whin first I got on me ould brogues, I stuck 

fast like a wheel in a rut, 
I seemed raisin' the weight o' the world every time 

that I lifted me fut. 



VII 

So I sat in the door not long afther, whin Judy 
O'Neill comes by, 
An': 'Bedad, Mick Flynn, ye 're an ould man 
grown,' sez she ; an' : ' Git out ! ' sez I. 



88 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

But as soon as she 'd passed I stepped round to 

the field that the lads were in, 
For I thought I 'd been idlin' enough, an' 'twas time 

I set to it agin. 
They were diggin' the first of the praties ; I smelt 

thim 'fore ever I came. 
An' I dunno a pleasanter scent in the world than 

the smell o' thim same, 
Whin ye thrust down your spade or your fork, an 

ye turn thim up hangin' in clumps, 
Wid the skins o' thim yeller an' smooth, an' the 

clay shakin' off thim in lumps. 
They 'd a creel on the bank be the gate, an' Pat 

called from his end o' the dhrill 
To be bringin' it up where he was, for he wanted 

another to fill ; 
And I thought to ha' lifted it light, but I 'd betther 

ha' let it alone, 
Tho' 'twas hardly three-parts full, an' 'ud hould 

but a couple o' stone ; 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 89 

For I hadn't the strenth to hoist it, and over it 

wint wid a pitch, 
An' there like a sthookaun I stood, an' the praties 

rowled in the ditch. 
But Pat, whin he seen I was vexed, up he come 

an' laid hould o' me arm. 
An' he bid me never to mind, for there wasn't a 

ha'porth o' harm. 
An' sez I : * I 'm not able for aught.' An' sez he : 

m 

* Dad, ye 've worked in your day 
Like a Trojin, an' now ye 've a right to your rest, 

while we '11 wrastle away. 
Sure it 's many a creel ye 've loaded afore I 'd the 

strenth or the wit ; 
And ye needn't be throublin' your head, for there 's 

plinty of help I '11 git ; 
Here's Larry an' Tim grown sizeable lads, an' 

Joe '11 soon be lendin' a hand — 
So ye '11 just sit quite in your corner, an' see that 

we '11 git on grand.' 



90 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

And he said it as kind as could be, yet me heart 
felt as heavy as lead, 
And I wint to the door, and I sat in the sun, but I 
wished I was dead. 



VIII 

He 's been always a good son, Pat, an' the wife, 

there 's no fau't in his wife, 
Sure she's doin' her best to keep house sin' me 

ould woman lost her life ; 
But the throuble she 's had — och ! the crathur, 

small blame to her now if she 'd think 
It was time they were quit of a wan fit for nought 

save to ait an' to dhrink. 
For whiles, whin she's washin' the praties, or 

cuttin' the childher's bread, 
I know be the look of her face she 's rememb'rin' 

the child that's dead; 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 91 

The littlest, that died in last winther, and often ^ 

afore it died 
Did be askin' its mammy for bread, an' thin, 'cause 

she 'd none, it cried ; 
An' the Docther he said 'twas the hunger had kilt 

it ; an' that was the case : 
Ye could see thro' its wee bits of hands, an' its eyes 

were as big as its face. ^ 

An' whiles whin I 'm aitin' me crust, /'// be thinkin' 

to hear it cry — 
But she J that's the mother who bore it — who'd 

blame her ? In throth not I. 
Och ! but that was the terrible winther, an' like 

to ha' starved us outright ; 
Ne'er a hungrier saison I mind since the first o' the 

pratie blight ; 
An' whine'er wan 's no call to be hungry, it 's three 

times as hungry wan feels, 
An' so I that worked never a sthroke, I did always 

be great at me meals. 



92 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

Vet I spared thim the most that I could, for o' 

nights whin I noticed our heap 
O' praties looked small in the pot, I 'd let on I was 

fast asleep ; 
So Molly she 'd spake to the childher, an' bid thim 

to whisht an' be quite, 
For if gran'daddy sted on asleep, he 'd be wantin' 

no supper that night ; 
Thin, the crathurs, as cautious an' cute as the mice 

they 'd all keep whin they heard, 
An' to think that the little childher 'd sit watchin', 

not darin' a word, 
But hush-hushin' wan to the other, for fear I might 

happin to wake 
And ait up their morsel o' food — sure me heart 

'ud be ready to break. 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 93 



IX 

Thin I 'd think : ' There 's the House ; ay, an 

thin they 'd be fewer to starve an' to stint ' ; 
Yet I hated the thought, an' kep' hopin' I 'd maybe 

be dead ere I wint. 
But I 'm just afther hearin' this day what has settled 

me plans in me mind, 
Like as if I had turned round me face ; and I won't 

go a-lookin' behind. 
I 'd been sthreelin' about in the slip at the back, 

whin I thought I 'd creep down 
An' see what was up at M'Gurk's, for it 's weeks 

since I Ve been in the town ; 
So round to the front I was come, an' the first 

thing that ever I seen 
Was two gintlemen close to our door, an' a car 

standin' down the boreen. 



94 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

And the wan o' the two was a sthranger, a stout 

little man, wid each square 
O' the checks on his coateen the size of our own 

bit o' field over there ; 
Divil much to be lookin' at aither, tho' here the 

lads tould me as how 
Twas no less than our Landlord himself, that we 'd 

never set eyes on till now. 
For away off in England he lives, where they say 

he 's an iligant place 
Wid big walls round it sevin mile long, and owns 

dozens of horses to race, 
That costs him a fortin to keep ; so whin all of 

his money is spint, 
He sends word over here to the Agint ; an' bids 

him make haste wid the rint. 
An' the other 's the Agint, I know him ; worse 

luck, I 've known many a wan, 
An' it 's sorra much good o' thim all. I remember 

the carryin's on 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 95 

We 'd have in the ould times at home, whin we 

heard he was comin' his round : 
For, suppose we 'd a calf or a heifer, we 'd dhrive 

her off into the pound, 
Or if we 'd a firkin of butther, we'd hide it away in 

the thatch. 
Ay, bedad, if we 'd even so much as an old hin 

a-sittin' to hatch. 
We 'd clap her in under the bed, out o' sight, for, 

mind you, we knew right well 
He 'd be raisin' the rint on us sthraight, if he spied 

that we 'd aught to sell. 
I 've heard tell there 's a change in the law, an' 

the rint takes three Judges to fix. 
So it isn't as aisy these times for an Agint to play 

thim bad thricks; 
I dunno the rights of it clear, but all 's wan, for he 

would if he could ; 
And as soon as I seen him this day, I was sure 

he 'd come afther no good. 



96 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

But I slipped the wrong side o' the bank ere they 

heard me, an' there I sat still, 
An' they came an' stood nigh it to wait, while their 

car crep' along up the hill. 



And Turner, the Agint, looked back to the 

house : ' Well, yer Lordship,' he sez, 
* That 's a case for eviction ; we '11 scarce see a 

pinny while wan o' thim stez. 
Why, they haven't a goose or a hin, let alone e'er 

a baste on the land, 
So where we 're to look for our money is more nor 

I understand. 
But in coorse the man's axin' for time.' An' sez 

t' other, * Confound him ! in coorse — 
'Tis their thrade to be axin' for that, if ye 're axin' 

a pound for your purse. 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 97 

They may have their damned time, sure, an' 

welcome, as long as they plase, on'y first 
They '11 pay up or clear out.' An' the Agint he 

laughed till ye 'd think he 'd ha' burst. 
An' sez he, 'Thin "clear out" '11 be the word, and 

my notion 's we '11 find that it pays, 
If we pull down thim ould sticks o' cabins, an' put 

in the cattle to graze ; 
Faith, I 'd liefer see sheep on the land than the 

likes o' that breed any day,' 
Sez he, pointin' his hand to the dyke, where the 

childher, poor sowls, were at play. 
An' the Lord sez, * It 's on'y a pity we can't git the 

lap of a wave 
Just for wanst, o'er the whole o' the counthry ; no 

end to the throuble 'twould save. 
And lave the place clane! An' the Agint laughed 

hearty ; sez he : 'Our best start, 
Since we can't git thim under the wather, is 

sendin' thim over it smart. 



c:- 



98 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

An' these Flynns here we 'd imigraph aisy ; they Ve 

several lads nearly grown ; 
The on'y dhrawback 's the ould father, we '11 just 

have to let him alone, 
For the son sez he 's sheer past his work, an' that 

niver 'ud do in the States ; 
It 's a burthen he 's been on their hands for this 

great while — he '11 go on the rates. 
Sure, the Union 's the place for the likes of him, so 

long as he bides above.' 
But be this time their car had come by, an' up 

wid thim, an' off they dhruv. 



XI 

I 'd ne'er ha' thought Patsy 'd say that ; an' he 
didn't belike — I dunno — 
But it 's on'y the truth if he did. A burthen ? 
Bedad, I 'm so. 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 99 

An' Pat, that 's a rale good son, and has been all 

the days of his life, 
It 's the quare thanks I 'm givin' him now, to be 

starvin' the childher and wife. 
For I often considher a sayin' we have : ' Whin it 's 

little ye Ve got. 
It 's the hunger ye '11 find at the botthom, if many 

dip spoons in your pot.' 
But if wanst they were shut o' meself, an' the Agint 

'ud wait for a bit. 
They might weather the worst o' the throuble, an' 

keep the ould roof o'er thim yit. 
But suppose they're put out afther all, an' 

packed off to the divil knows where, 
An' I up away in the House, I might never so 

happin to hear ; 
An' I 'd liefer not know it for certin. Och ! to 

think the ould place was a roon, 
Wid nought left save the rims o' four walls, that 

the weeds 'ud be coverin' soon ; 



100 LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S 

An' the bastes o' the field walkin' in ; an' the hole 

where the hearth was filled 
Wid the briers ; an' no thrace o' the shed that I 

helped me poor father to build, 
An' I but a slip of a lad, an' that plased to be 

handlin' the tools, 
I 'most hammered the head off each nail that I 

dhruv. Och, it 's boys that are fools. 



XII 

'Tis sevin mile good into Westport ; I never 

could thramp it so far, 
But Tim Daly dhrives there of a Friday ; he '11 

loan me a sate on his car. 
An' Friday 's to-morra, ochone ! so I 'm near now 

to seein' me last 
O' Barney, an' Pat, an' the childher, an' all the 

ould times seem past 



LAST TIME AT M'GURK'S loi 

I remimber the House goin' by it. It stands on 

a bit of a rise, 
Stone-black, lookin' over the Ian', wid its windows 

all starin' like eyes ; 
And it 's lonesome an' sthrange I '11 be feelin', wid 

ne'er a frind's face to behould ; 
An' the days 'ill go dhreary an' slow. But I 'm 

ould, plase God, I 'm ould. 



f FROpLL.ri'V :^.r Sj 

1,' ^ I 



1 



1 : L i- . 



t 



n 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 

Non omni somno securius exstatf 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 



Ay^ her people an' mine we lived next door at 

the end o' the long boreen, 
Afore it runs out on the breadth o' the bog where 

the black land bates the green ; 
An' Nelly's mother 'ud always give me a pleasant 

word passin' thim by, 
As I dhruv out our cow of a mornin', an' meself 

scarce her showlder high. 
An' Nelly she 'd crawl up the step, an' stump afther 

me into the lane, 
An' she 'd throt, callin' : ' ' Top, Dimmy, 'top ! ' for 

she couldn't run sthraight, or spake plain ; 

105 



io6 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

And her mother 'd say, 'Jimmy, me lad, if I trust 

her along wid ye, thin, 
Keep your eye on her ; mind the big hole ; for 

your life don't be lettin' her in/ 
So it 's many a day I 'd be keepin' me eye on the 

child an' the baste, 
That had mostly a mind to be goin' wherever ye 

wanted thim laste ; 
An' th' ould cow 'd sthray away thro' the bog, if 

she couldn't find mischief to do 
Thramplin' fences an' fields ; but it 's Nelly herself 

was the worst o' the two. 
For ere ever ye 'd know, there she 'd be like a scut 

of a rabbit a-creep — 
She 'd creep faster thim whiles than she 'd walk — 

down the bank where the hole 's lyin' deep ; 
An' it 's thin I 'd the work o' the world to be catchin' 

her an' coaxin' her back. 
Such a fancy she 'd tuk to the place, an' it lookin 

so ugly an' black, 



^ 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 107 

Wid its sides cut wall-sthraight wid the spade, an' 

the wather like midnight below, 
Lyin' far out o' reach ; overhead all the storm-winds 

may blusther an' blow. 
But 'tis still as a floor o' stone flags, an' its depth 

ye can't measure noways ; 
Sure if Nelly had crep' o'er the edge, she'd ha' 

crep' to the end of her days. 



IX 

But the years wint till Nelly 'd more wit than to 

dhrown of herself in a hole. 
An' meself was a size to git work in the fields ; 

yit, fair weather or foul, 
Whin a holiday come we 'd be out rovin' round on 

the bog, she an' me, 
For we always kep' frinds ; and it 's lonesome was 

Nell, since the mother, ye see. 



io8 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

Tuk an' died wan hard winter, worse luck — a bad 

job for the little colleen — 
And her brothers had gone to the States, and her 

father was fond o' potheen, 
And 'ud bide dhrinkin' dhrops down at Byrne's 

till he hadn't a thought in his head ; 
So that, barrin' ould Granny an' me, all her 

company 'd quit or was dead. 



Ill 

There 's a bit of a hill rises up, right fornint the 

big hole — the same sort 
As ye '11 count be the dozen in bogs, wid the grass 

on 't fine-bladed an' short. 
An' the furzes an' broom in a ruffle a-top, an' flat 

stones peepin' out. 
Where it 's pleasant to sit in the sun and be lookin' 

around and about, 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 109 

Whin the bog wid its stacks and its pools spreads 

away to the rim o' the blue 
That lanes over as clear as a glass, on'y somehow- 
wan ne'er can see thro'. 
An' there 's plenty to mind, sure, if on'y ye look 

to the grass at your feet, 
For 'tis thick wid the tussocks of heather, an* 

blossoms and herbs that smell sweet 
If ye- tread thim ; an' maybe the white o' the 

bog-cotton waved in the win', 
Like the wool ye might shear off a night-moth, an' 

set an ould fairy to spin ; 
Or wee frauns, each wan stuck 'twixt two leaves 

on a grand little stem of its own, 
Lettin' on 'twas a plum on a tree ; an' the briers 

thrailed o'er many a stone 
Dhroppin' dewberries, black-ripe and soft, fit to 

melt into juice in your hould ; 
An' the bare stones thimselves 'ill be dusted wid 

circles o* silver an' gould — 



no BY THE BOG-HOLE 

Nelly called thim the moon an' the sun— an' grey 

patches like moss that 's got froze, 
Wid white cups in 't that take a red rim by the 

time we 've the sheaves up in rows ; 
I 'd be vexed whin they turned, for a sign that the 

summer was slippin' away, 
But poor Nelly was pleased wid the little bright 

sthrakes growin' broader each day. 



IV 

So wan evenin' — I know if I think, 'twas whin 

last they were cuttin' the oats, 
Maybe four months from now, whin outside past 

the bars there 's an odd snow-flake floats, 
But it seems to me feelin' a world's breadth away/ 

and a life's lenth ago — I 

Well, the two of us sat on the hill, an' the sun was 

about gettin' low, 



BY THE BOG-HOLE iii 

An' there wasn't a ray on the Ian', for the dhrift o' 

dark cloud overhead 
Sthretched away like a roof, till just rimmin' the 

west ran the light in a thread, 
Same as if 'twas a lid liftin' up on bright hinges ; 

an' sorra a breath 
Thro' the leaves or the grass, for the win' never 

stirred, an' 'twas stiller than death. 
An' «o Nelly 'd a poppy-bud pulled, wid the red 

all erased up in the green, 
An' sat smoothin' its leaves on her lap, till ye saw 

its black heart in between ; 
An' her hair curlin' over the shine of her eyes, an' 

a smile on her mouth. 
As I knew by the dint in her cheek turned aside 

from me. Sure 'twas the truth. 
But I dunno for why of a suddint the notion come 

into me mind 
That in all o' that bog-land it's Nell was the 

purtiest thing ye could find ; 



112 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

All' thinks I : * Sure the slip of a lass, whin the 

days o' me life 'ill be dark, 
Is the same as yon glame in the west that widout 

it has sorra a spark.' 



But that instant he stepped round the end o' the 

turf-stack fornint the boreen, 
Wid a scarlet to aquil the poppies ablaze on his 

bit o' coateen, 
And his belts and his straps and his buckles as 

white an' as bright as could shine — 
Whin a dragon-fly sits on the slant o' the sun he 

looks somethin' as fine — 
Till he seemed to be lightin' a dazzle an' glitter 

each step that he stirred ; 
And his little red cap set a-top wid a cock, like 

the crest of a bird, 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 113 

And his spurs glancin' out at his heels, an' the 
stripes o' gold lace down his sleeve ; 

And himself was just Felix Magrath comin' home 
to his father's on leave. 



VI 

The red-coats — I 'd seen thim at Christmas, when 

Victions was down at Drumloe, 
Standin' watchin' the ould folk an' childher put 

out in the flurries o' snow. 
And it 's thin they looked bitther an' black as their 

powdher an' steel, man for man, 
But — I'll say that for Felix Magrath — find a 

pleasanter lad if ye can. 
For he seemed somehow heartenin' things up, whin 

he stepped along sthraight as a dart. 
Maybe twirlin' his bit of a stick to a tune like, that 

dacint an' smart 

H 



114 ^y THE BOG-HOLE 

That ye 'd feel, clumpin' on be his side, like aquare 

sort o' raggety gawk. 
Thin to hear him discoorse ; ye might listen from 

mornin' till night to his talk, 
He 'd such stories of all he 'd beheld in thim lands 

where they fight wid the blacks, 
Where the curiousest things ye could think do be 

plenty as turf-sods in stacks. 
And he'd medals that set him rememb'rin' wan 

day whin the guns let a roar 
From the ridge o' the sandhills close by, where 

they 'd come since the evenin' before ; 
An' it 's mountin' they all were next minute, an' 

waitin' the word o' command, 
Wid his baste in a quiver to start, sthrainin' hard 

on the reins in his hand, ^^ 

An' thim other lads passin' thim on to the fronS 

till their hearts were nigh broke, I 

Thramp an' thramp, wid the bands playin' march- 
tunes ahead thro' the booms in the smoke ; 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 115 

Thin the bugle rang out — Och, I 've ne'er heard 

the like, yet wan aisy can tell 
They 'd ha' lep' all the locked gates of Heaven to 

ride wid that music to Hell. 



VII 

So if-Nell tuk a pleasure in listenin', the same as 

the rest o' thim, why 
'Twas small blame to her ; that 's what I said to 

meself; but it seemed like a lie. 
An' whine'er I come home from me work, an' seen 

never a sowl be the hedge. 
Where there 'd most whiles be Nelly to meet me, 

but, happen, away on the edge 
O' the hill-slope a pair standin' dark 'ginst the clear 

o' the sunset, och thin 
All the fire that was dead in the sky seemed flared 

up to a burnin' agin 



ii6 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

In the core o' me heart ; an' the first thing I knew 

I 'd be rippin' an oath, 
Wid me fingers clenched hard in a rage, like as if 

they were grippin' his throath ; 
An' I 'd swear to meself that whin wanst he was 

parted from Nelly that night, 
I 'd slip afther him back to his place, an' pervoke 

him some way to a fight, 
As I ready might do if I plased, an' no throuble 

about it at all, 
For it 's aisier risin' a quarrel than sthrikin' a match 

on a wall. 
An' bedad, if it come to that work, it's meself 

might be havin' the pull, 
For I stood a head taller than he, and I 'd always 

the strenth of a bull ; 
An' 'twas likely enough, if I masthered him thin, 

he 'd take off out o' this. 
An' leave Nelly an' me to ourselves as if naught | 

had befallen amiss ; 



I 



II 



» I 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 117 

An' thin Nelly 'd percaive there was more in the 

world than a gay bit o' red — 
So thinks I to meself ; but, sure, musha, wan's 

thoughts is like beads off a thread, 
Slippin' each after each in a hurry : an' so I kep' 

considherin' on. 
Till the next thought I had was if Nelly 'd be 

fretted whin Felix was gone. 
For I knew that the comfort was crep' from me 

life like the light from the day 
Since she 'd tuk up wid him ; an' belike now if 

aught chanced that dhruv him away. 
She 'd be heart-broke. An' what call had I to go 

vex her wid comin' between, 
Whin she 'd liefer have him than meself in me 

shows of ould brogues an' caubeen ? 
' Divil take me/ sez I, * thin it 's schemin' I am 

to have Nelly to wake 
Wid her heart every mornin' like lead, if there 's 

lead that can thrimble and ache. 



ii8 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

Wid no pleasure in aught, feelin' lonesome an* lost 

in the world dhrear an' wild, 
I might betther ha' left her to dhrown, an' she 

on'y an imp of a child.' 



VIII 

But there 's whiles whin the throubles ye 're 

dhreadin' seem comin' be conthrary ways. 
An' ye '11 wondher what road ye should turn from 

the worst till your mind 's in a maze, 
Like me own, whin I heard what the neighbours 

were sayin' o' Nelly. Bedad, 
It's the lasses were jealous I know — but they all 

would go bail Magrath's lad 
Was just foolin' the girl for the sake o' divarsion 

as certin as fate, 
Wid his slootherin' talk, and his thrapesin' afther 

her early an' late. 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 119 

Till she'd come to no good. Ay, mayhap, it 

was nothin' but envy an* spite, 
Yet it seemed to meself whin the neighbours called 

Felix a rogue, they said right ; 
An' thin Nell 'd got no mother to mind her. I 

couldn't tell what to be at, , 

For if all that they talked was the truth, I 'd ha' 

choked him as soon as a rat ; 
But the truth was as hard to piece out as a page 

whin the half of it 's torn ; 
An' I 'd think 'twixt us both Nell might fare like 

a little white rose on the thorn, 
That two childher '11 be scufflin' an' tusslin' to grab, 

'cause it 's purty an' sweet. 
Till its laves is shook off in a shower, an' throd 

down in the dust at their feet. 



I20 BY THE BOG-HOLE 



IX 

An' thim evenin's I felt to be hatin' whatever I 

seen or I heard, 
So I 'd slinge away into the house, where I 'd 

nowan to give me a word, 
An' the corners is black at noonday. But I couldn't 

shut out o' me sight 
How the west where the sun had gone by would 

be swimmin' brimful wid clear light, 
An' as fast as it dhrained off the stars 'ud be slippin' 

this side o' the sky, 
Like the rain-dhrops that rowl down and hang from 

the blade-points ; it 's Nelly and I 
*Ud be watchin' thim many a time ; an' sure now 

she was watchin' wid hhn^ 
An' what differ to her ? But a wolf whin he 's 

tearin' a man limb from limb 



I 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 121 

Might ha' frindlier feelin's than me, whin I fancied 

the two o' thim there, 
Sthrollin' aisy, while FeHx 'd be stickin' red poppies 

in Nelly's black hair, 
As I seen him wan evenin', or pullin' her kingcups 

along be the pool. 
An' they both talkin' low, an' it 's like enough 

laughin' at me for a fool 
That hsid tuk off to sulk be himself. I 'd ha' sworn 

I was hearin' him laugh ; 
An' I wanst grabbed me blackthorn that laned be 

the wall, an' I snapped it in half 
Like a withy, ere I knew what I done, and it thick 

as your wristbone. An' thin 
There 'd be Granny, that sat on the step wid her 

knittin', would keep peerin' in, 
Thinkin' maybe I 'd speak to her pleasant some 

while ; for the crathur was scared. 
An' she dursn't so much as be askin' what ailed 

me ; but little I cared. 



122 . BY THE BOG-HOLE 

Or it 's plased in a manner I was wid the notion 

I 'd somebody vexed ; 
An' I 'd often scarce open me lips, good or bad, 

from wan light till the next. 
Och, but slow wint the time, an' I crouched in the 

dark like a baste in his lair, 
Ragin' crueler than bastes, barrin' divils. Sure 

mad ye 'd go, mad wid despair, 
If ye hadn't the thought that the end o' the end, 

whatsoe'er may befall, 
Is nought else save a paice and a quiet, v/here 

ye '11 disremember it all. 



Well, wan night, comin' home agin sundown, I 
met wid some girls at the gate 
Beyant Reilly's, an' Biddy O'Loughlin : ' Och 
Jimmy,' sez she, * man, ye 're late ; 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 123 

For we seen thim just now, passin' by near the 

pool at the fut o' the hill, 
Your sweetheart an' her sweetheart, thick as two 

thieves. Ye might find thim there still, 
If ye stirred yourself,' sez she. Sez I : * Find a 

sweetheart, me lass, o' your own, 
And it 's thin ye '11 be maybe contint to let other 

folks' sweethearts alone.' 
So sez I ; but I thought to meself I 'd turn back 

be the way that I came, 
An' keep out o' the sight o' the hole. But it 's 

there I wint sthraight all the same. 



XI 

There were showers about on the bog, an' the 
blast risin' up wid a keen 
Dhruv the wet in me eyes as I come towards the 
hole till the slope falls between ; 



124 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

And I tuk a look round, sharp an' quick, as ye 'd 

touch a red coal wid your hand — 
Ne'er a sign of him — nowan but Nell — sure a light 

seemed to slip o'er the land. 
But it 's kneelin' she was on the edge, stoopin* 

low o'er the blackness widin, 
And I called to her : * Mind yourself, Nell ! ' for 

to see her ran could thro' me skin. 
But wid that she lept up to her feet, an' just ready 

she stood for a spring, 
Never liftin' her eyes from the wather. So sthraight 

as a stone from a sling 
I was down the hill-side, an' I dhragged her away, 

tho' it 's past what ye 'd think 
How she sthrove in me arms ; I was hard set to 

hold her off safe from the brink. 
Thin she tuk to stan' still of a suddint, an' sez to 

me soft like an' low : 
'For the love o' the Mother o' Mercy, don't be 

keepin' me, lad, let me go.' 






BY THE BOG-HOLE 125 

An' sez I to her : ' Nelly, me darlint, I Ve made up 

me mind in the nights 
That I 'd give ye to Felix Magrath ; for, sure, how 

should I grudge you by rights, 
If it 's him your heart 's set on ? I '11 keep meself 

quite ; there 's no more to be said. 
But yon ugly black hole — och, it 's often I Ve 

promised your mother that 's dead 
I 'd ne'er let that git hold o' ye. Time and agin 

I '11 ha' hauled ye along 
Up this bank, an' ye fightin' as fierce as a kitten, 

an' nearly as sthrong, 
And abusin' me all ye could think, in the rage o' 

ye. Now, be me sowl, 
I 'd not keep ye from wan that was pleasant an' 

kind, but I '11 chate the black hole.' 
So sez I ; but sez she wid a cry that was like a 

wild bird's on the air : 
* 'Tis to Felix I 'm goin', to Felix, that 's lyin' an' 

dhrownin' down there.' 



126 BY THE BOG-HOLE 



XII 

Och, the world gave a reel ; och, the words 

meant no more than the thunderclaps mane, 
Thro' the roar in me ears, till I saw thim black 

sods that were soft wid the rain 
All fresh thrampled, an' scrawmed on the edge were 

the prints left where somewan had gript 
For dear life wid his fingers — God help him whin 

heavy he grew, an' they slipt, 
And he dug his nails hard — an' they slipt. An' in 

Nelly's own bit of a hand, 
That I 'd caught, was a scrap o' gold lace ; an' 

his cap wid its bright-shinin' band 
Hung there waved on a brier ; but the wather 

lay smooth. An' sez I : ' In God's name. 
What was that ye said, Nelly ? ' An' sez she : 

*'Twas but now ; he was here whin I came. 



I 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 127 

An' sez he, whin the rain-dhrops began : " Now 

the fine weather 's broke, I '11 be sworn, 
But it 's lasted as long as me leave, for I 'm off to 

the Curragh the morn." 
So sez I : "Is it that soon ye '11 be goin'?" An' 

sez he : " Sure, if longer I 'd stay, 
What at all would the wife there be doin' ? She 'd 

think that I 'd scooted away ; 
Och, it 's ragin' she 'd be like the mischief. But, 

Nelly," sez he, " wife or no, 
Ye 're the purtiest girl I e'er seen, an' ye '11 give 

me a kiss ere I go." 
But I pushed him away, and I sez : " Ne'er a kiss 

ye '11 be gittin' from me." 
An' I turned to run home, an' the sky 'd grown so 

dark that I scarcely could see. 
Thin he tuk a step back — sure belike he forgot 

he stood close to the bank — 
An' he fell, an' he held to the edge, but he dhropped 

in the wather an' sank. 



128 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

An' he 's dhrownin' — leave go o' me, Jimmy — ye 

stookawn — I 'd aisy jump down — 
It 's your fau't if ye hinder me savin' him — your 

doin' for lettin' him dhrown, 
That 's me sweetheart. Och, Felix,' sez she, * I 'd 

give body an' sowl for your life, 
Felix darlint' I knew it afore, yet to hear her 

seemed twistin' a knife 
That was stuck in me heart. But I held her the 

closer. I 've learnt since I 've thried 
How a man can hold Heaven an' Hell in wan 

grip. Thin most piteous she cried, 
An' she snatched her two hands out o' mine to 

her throat, an' seemed gaspin' for breath, 
An' her head dhrooped aside, an' she lay in me 

arms like the image o' death. 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 129 



XIII 

But 'tis all in a mist afther thin. First the 

neighbours come plutherin' round, 
Callin' wan to the other that Nelly was dead, an' 

that Felix was dhrowned. 
An' the polls thramped black thro' the glames of a 

moon that was takin' to rise. 
An' thin somebody said : ' Sure he 's murthered 

her sweetheart before the girl's eyes.' 
Was it that set the win' howlin' 'Murther!' all 

over the land in the dark ? 
An' they axed me a power o' questions, an' fitted 

me fut in a mark 
On the bank. But it 's little I heeded whatever 

they 'd do or they 'd say, 
For thin Nelly was come to her sinses, an' ravin' 

an' moanin' away, 



I30 BY THE BOG-HOLE 

An' kep' biddin' thim hinder me dhrownin' the lad 

in the hole be the hill. 
So sez I to meself whin I heard her : * I '11 let thim 

believe what they will. 
I '11 say naught, an' the kinder they '11 thrate her 

belike.' So I just held me tongue. 
An' some chaps began booin' an' shoutin' the 

villin 'd a right to be hung. 
An' his mother wint callin' him soft, lettin' on he 

was hid for a joke ; 
But th' ould father I 'd seen shake his fist at me 

over the heads o' the folk : 
Troth, as long as the life 's in me body he '11 ne'er 

git a minute o' paice. J 

And I seen Granny mopin' about wid the fright 

puckered up in her face. 
Och, she '11 starve, now, the crathur, she '11 starve ; 

that 's the throuble I 'm lavin' behind. 
Did I see? I'm scarce certin, but since, I'll be 

seein' it oft in me mind, 






BY THE BOG-HOLE 131 

What they dhrew up all dhrippin', up out o' the 

wather that shivered an' spun 
In black rings, hauled up slow like a log, stiff an' 

stark, an' laid down where the sun 
Was just rachin' to twinkle the dew on the grass. 

Whin ye looked where that lay, 
All the world seemed no more than a drift o' deep 

night round a hand's-breadth o' day. 
But it-'s clearer I see him come stepped thro' the 

sunset in glimmers o' gould. 
Than that wanst, sthretched his lenth there, stone- 
still, wid thim black snaky weeds, wet an' could, 
Thrailin' round him. Her darlint, her darlint — I 

hear that asleep and awake ; 
I 'd a right to quit hearin' it now, whin he '11 listen 

no more than she '11 spake. 



132 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 



XIV 



For they tould me this day little Nelly had died 

o' the fever last night, 
An' the frettin' ; so nothin' that matthers a 

thraneen 's left under the light. 
What's the differ if people believe 'twas mcself 

shoved him into the pool ? 
They can't help her or harm her. But, faith, sir, 

ye '11 think me a powerful fool, 
Or ye'd scarce have the face to be biddin' me 

spake out the truth now, afore 
Tis too late ; an' yourself sittin' there tellin' lies 

this last half-hour an' more, 
Wid your little black book full o' blatheremskyte 

as its leaves is o' print ; 
Sure, I 'd heard all your stories ; an' sorra a wan 

ye 've the wit to invint 



BY THE BOG-HOLE 133 

That 'ill show folk the sinse o' the life where they've 

come, an' the death where they '11 go, 
If there 's sinse in 't at all ; wan thing 's certin : it 

isn't the likes o' yez know — 
Wid your chapels an' churches, Heaven walled up 

in each, an' Hell's blazes all round. 
Och, the Divil / keep is contint plaguin' crathurs 

that bide above ground, 
Widolit blatherin' afther thim into the dark ; that's 

the Divil for me ; 
Tho' he wouldn't suit you, sir : the folk 's aisier 

frighted wid things they can't see. 
But just leave me in paice wid your glory an' 

joy — they 're as bad as the rest. 
If there 's anythin' manes me a good turn at all, 

let it give me what 's best — 
The great sleep, that 's all sleep, ne'er a fear wan 

could wake, ne'er a thought to creep in ; 
Ne'er a dhrame — or I 'd maybe hear Nelly call 

Felix her darlint agin. 



PAST PRAYING FOR 
OR, THE SOUPER'S WIDOW 

* Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans? 



PAST PRAYING FOR 

OR, THE SOUPER'Si WIDOW 

(A.D. 184—) 

I 

Sure he 'd never ha' done it, not he, if I 'd on'y 

but held o' me tongue ; 
Och, the fool that I was, the black fool — for the 

same I 'd deserve to be hung ; 
But, bedad thin, the tongue o' ye 's harder than 

aught in the world else to hould. 
An' that mornin' we all was disthracted an' 

perished wid hunger an' could. 

^ Souper is a term applied to the few Irish Catholic peasants who, 
during famine years, professed Protestantism in order to obtain the 
relief, often intrusted for distribution to the clergy of the then 
Established Church, who occasionally made a grant conditional 
upon attendance at their services, etc., though as a rule acting 
impartially and humanely. 

137 



138 PAST PRAYING FOR 



II 

It was right in the worst o' the famine, the first . 

years the praties wint black — ^m 

Tho' ye 're scarce of an age, Sisther Frances, to 

remember o' things so far back ; 
But in coorse ye 've heard tell o' thim times, whin 

the people was dyin' be the score, 
Ay, be hundrids an' thousinds, the like was ne'er 

seen in the counthry before. 
An' what else should the crathurs ha' done, wid 

the food o' thim rotted to dirt ? 
Och, to see thim — ye 'd meet ne'er a man but his 

face was as white as his shirt. 
And ourselves had been starved all the winther, the 

childher, an' Micky, an' me. 
An' poor Micky's ould mother, till, comin' on 

spring, not a chance could we see ; 



PAST PRAYING FOR 139 

For there wasn't a house far or near where they 'd 

give ye the black o' your eye, 
And our Praste he was down wid the fever, an' 

clane ruinated forby. 



Ill 

So it 's rale delighted we were on that evenin' 

Pat Murphy brought word 
How the people o' Lunnon had sint some relief to 

our townland he heard ; 
Relief — that was oatmale, an' loaves, an' a grand 

sup o' broth in a bowl. 
An' to git it ye 'd stip down to Parson, who 'd tuk 

to disthribit the whole. 
So full early we started next day, sin' the road 's 

a long sthretch to his place, 
An' we hadn't a scrap in the house but a crust for 

the childher. And in case 



140 



PAST PRAYING FOR 



We got out the big bag for the male, Mick an' I, 

while the rest, lookin' on, 
Did be wishin' we'd bring it back full, an' a- 

wondhrin' how long we 'd be gone. 
Sure, the laste o' thim all, little Larry, that scarce 

was a size to run sthraight, 
Tuk a notion to come wid us too, whin he heard 

'twas for somethin' to ait. 
I remember the look of it yit, skytin' afther us the 

lenth o' the lane. 
Thin I mind, comin' into the town, meetin' cai t- 

loads and cart-loads o' grain, 
That Lord Athmore was sindin' in sthrings to be 

shipped off from Westport by say ; 
An' the people stood watchin' thim pass like as if 

'twas a corpse on its way. 
An' sez Mick, whin we met thim : ' Look, Norah,' 

sez he, * that 's not aisy to stand : 
It 's the lives of our childher th' ould naygur 's 

a-cartin' off out o' the land.' 



m 



PAST PRAYING FOR 141 

An' sez I, just to pacify Mick : * Thin good luck to 

the folks as ha' sint 
What 'ill keep o' the sowls in their bodies ; if we 

can but do that I 'm contint.' 



IV 

But-j och, Sisther darlin', at Parson's we got sorra 

a bit afther all ; 
Not a taste in the world save the smell o' the soup 

that was sthrong in the hall. 
For whin Parson come out from his breakfast, he 

said the relief that he 'd got 
Was for thim who wint reg'lar to church — where 

he 'd ne'er seen a wan of our lot ; 
An' he 'd liefer throw bread to the dogs than to 

childher o' papists, whose thricks 
Were no better than haythins', brought up to be 

worshippin' ould bits o' sticks. 



M 



J 



142 PAST PRAYING FOR 

Howsome'er, if we 'd give him our word we 'd attind 

the next Sunday, why thin 
He 'd considher. But who could ha' promised the 

like ? Such a shame and a sin : 

i 

Turn a souper in sight o' thim all, an' throop off to ■ 

the place where they curse 
The ould Pope, an' the Virgin, an' jeer at the Mass 

— why, what haythin 'd do worse ? 
Yet that hape o' big loaves. Sisther Frances, thim 

folk 's in a manner to blame 
Who know whin ye 're starvin' an' tempt ye. So 

we wint back the way that we came. 

But, ochone, it seemed double the lenth, an' it 's 

i 

never a word Micky said. 

An' the ould empty bag on me arm was that light 

it felt heavy as lead ; 
An' the childher, that ran out to meet us as far as 

the top o' the hill, 
Whin they found we'd brought nothin' at all — I 

could cry now to think o' thim still. 



PAST PRAYING FOR 143 



An' twyst afther that Mick wint down there to 

thry if a bit could be had, 
But onless that we promised to turn, not a scrapeen 

we 'd git good or bad. 
Och, the long hungry days. So wan mornin' we 'd 

ate all the breakfast o'er night, 
And I hoped we 'd be late wakin' up, but it seemed 

cruel soon gittin' light. 
An' the March win' was ice, an' the sun on'y shinin 

to show it its road, 
An' the fire was gone out on us black, an' no turf 

till wan thramped for a load. 
Thin the childher, an' Mick's mother herself, were 

that starvin', the crathurs, an' could, 
That they all fell to keenin' together most woeful, 

the young an' the ould ; 



144 PAST PRAYING FOR 

Until Mick, that was lyin' in bed for the hunger, 

an' half the week long 
Had scarce tasted a bit, he laned up on his elbow 

to ax what was wrong. 
An' sez I — God forgive me, 'twas just the first 

thing that come into me head — 
*Sure it's cryin' they are, man,' sez I, *for the 

want of a mouthful o' bread, 
And it 's dyin' they may be next thing, for what 

help I can see. Och, it 's quare, 
But if Parson had knowed how we 're kilt, an' ye 'd 

on'y ha' spoken him fair. 
He'd allow us a thrifle at laste.' An' sez he: 

' Woman, whisht ! what 's the use ? 
I might spake him as fair as ye plase, or might 

give him the heighth of abuse, 
All as wan, he 's that bitther agin us. But throth 

will I stand it no more ; 
I '11 turn souper this day for the male.' And he 

ups wid himself off the floor ; 



PAST PRAYING FOR 145 

For 'twas Sunday that mornin', worse luck : ' It 's 

a sin, sure/ sez he, ' I know well, 
'Siver, sooner than watch thim disthroyed, I 'd say 

prayers to the Divil in Hell,' 
Sez he, goodness forgive him — but, mind you, 

meself 's every ha'porth as bad, 
For thin, watchin' him off down the lane, I dunno 

was I sorry or glad. 



VI 

And he wint, sure enough, to the church. 
Widdy Mahon she tould me next day 
How she 'd gone there herself for the victuals, an' 

met wid him comin' away ; 
And how afther the service they stepped up to 

Parson's to thry what they 'd git. 
An' they got a half loaf, an' the full o' the male- 
bag ; an' never a bit 

K 



146 



PAST PRAYING FOR 



Would he touch, but made off wid him sthraight, 
tho' she said he seemed hard-set to crawl — 

Och, ye see 'twas for us that he turned, for him- 
self he 'd ne'er do it at all. 

An' it's wishful he was to slip home in a hurry, 
poor lad, wid his pack, 

An' to bring us the best that he had. But och, 
Sisther, he never got back. 



VII 

For the boys comin' up from the Mass down at 

Moyna, a while later on. 
Found him dhropped of a hape be the path past 

Kilogue wid the life of him gone ; 
An' th' ould male-bag gripped close in his hand, 

that he thought to ha' carried us home. 
Och, I mind it, the place where he lay, 'tis the 

lonesomest road ye can roam, 



PAST PRAYING FOR 147 

Wid the bog black an' dhreary around ye, an' 

sorra a wall or a hedge, 
Sthretchin' out till the hill-top lifts up like a fear- 
ful great face o'er the edge ; 
An' the breadths o' the big empty sky, wid no end, 

look as far as ye will. 
Seem just dhrawin' an' dhrainin' your life out, if 

weak-like ye 're feelin' an' ill ; 
An' it's that way poor Mick was. Och, Sisther, 

there 's scarcely a day 's gone by 
In the years ever since, but I 'm thinkin' how 

desolit he happint to die. 
And I dhrame it o' nights — be himself, starin' 

lonesome an' lost 'nathe thim skies, 
Wid the could creepin' into his heart, an' the 

cloud comin' over his eyes. 
An' that sin on his sowl — would ye say there 's a 

chance for him ? Look, now, at me, 
Wid a bed to die aisy on here in the House, 

betther off, sure, than he. 



148 PAST PRAYING FOR 

An' me fau't just as bad. Cock me up ! to lie 

here where I 've help widin call, 
An' poor Mick out o' rache on the road — where 's 

the manin' or sinse in 't at all ? 



VIII 

Ay, in troth, 'twas no thing to go do ; ay, a 

scandal it was and a sin ; 
But mayhap they 'd scarce judge him so hard if 

they knew all the sthraits we were in. 
There 's the Mother o' Mercy, sez I to meself, sure, 

it 's childher she 's had — 
May they ne'er want the bite or the sup, if she '11 

spake a good word for me lad. 
Och, me head 's gittin' doitered an' quare, or I 'd 

know they 've tuk off out o' this, 
And is settled in glory above, where there 's 

nought can befall them amiss. 



PAST PRAYING FOR 149 

But suppose she remembers her time down below, 

if she even Hved where 
The ould blight never come on their praties an' 

dhruv the whole land to despair, 
Yet I'm thinkin' there's always been plenty o' 

throuble about on this earth, 
An' for sure 'twill ha' happint her whiles to ha' 

never a sod on the hearth. 
Or a -scrap for the pot, an' the childher around 

her all famished an' white. 
An' they cryin', an' she nothin' to give them, save 

bid them to whisht an' be quite. 



IX 

But, indeed, for that matther, the Lord, who 'd 
enough to contind wid those times. 
Might ha' some sort o' notion himself how the 
poor people 's tempted to crimes. 



iij 



150 PAST PRAYING FOR 

Whin they're watchin' their own folk a-starvin', 

an' no help for it, strive as they may. « 

For himself set a dale by his mother, accordin' as 

I 've heard say. 
An' remembered her last thing of all in the thick j 

of his throuble, an' thought 
To make sure she 'd ha' some wan to care her an' 

heed that she wanted for nought, 
An' be keepin' the roof o'er her head while she 

lived, all the same as her son — 
But, ye see, he'd a frind he could trust to, an' 

Micky, the crathur, had none. 
An' that same would be vexin' his heart while he 

lay dyin' there on the road ; 
For the sorra a sowl would be left in the world to 

purtect us, he knowed ; 
An' I mind when the fever he had, an' was 

wandh'rin' a bit in his head, 
He kep' ravin' continyal as how 'twas desthroyed 

we 'd be wanst he was dead. 



PAST PRAYING FOR 151 

An' poor Mick was that kind in his heart, he 'd 

be put past his patience outright 
Whin th' ould mother an' childher was frettin' wid 

hunger from mornin' till night ; 
An' it 's that was the raison he done it — nought 

else. So, belike, if above 
They'd considher the hardships he met, till its' 

desprit, bedad, he was dhruv, 
An'. no hope o' relief for the crathurs at home, 

mind you, barrin' he wint 
An' let on a bit now an' agin — they'd believe 

'twas no harm that he mint ; 
An' that wan sin he done, an' he starvin', they 'd 

maybe forgive an' forget — 
Och, Sisther Frances, me honey, would ye say 

there 's a chance for him yet ? 



i 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 

Ot6v /i'd/coucravr' dpr^ws ^ei, yivai, 
^vx^y ifKivTiixa. Kd,vaKbr)Cis (ppevuv. 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 



OULD Sir Maurice's youngest daughther, do I 

mind her, Sir, did ye say ? 
Miss*Honor is it ? Och, sure the same as I 'd seen 

her but yistherday ; 
And her weddin' — Ay, Sir, her weddin' I said. 

How long since ? Well, I dunno, 
But a matter o' ten year back belike ; anyway 'tis 

wan while ago. 

n 

We thought little enough o' the match here 
below in the town ; people said 
Miss Honor 'd a right to ha' looked at home, if so 
be she 'd a mind to wed. 

155 



156 MISS HONOR'S WEDDING , 

There was plinty o' betther than he did be afther 

her thin, ye '11 be bound, 
An' she reckoned the greatest beauty in the sevin" 

counties around. 
Yet she needs must take up wid a sthranger ; I 

believe 'twas from Scotland he came. 
No, Sir, I ne'er chanced to behould him, and I 

disremember his name — 
A big man, I 've heard tell, as yourself 's, Sir, an' 

pleasant o' speech, but a bit 
Conthrary some whiles in his temper, an' come of 

a quare wild set. 
Not aquil no ways to Miss Honor: sure, whin 

she 'd be ridin' the road. 
As many 's the time I 've seen her, be the look of 

her no wan 'd ha' knowed 
Whether 'twas to the Earl, or the Countess, or ould 

Andy the fiddler she bowed ; 
A rale lady, tho', mind ye, some Quality thought 
her proud. 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 157 



III 

Howsomever, a sthranger or no, ould Sir Maurice 
was plased an' content, 
An' they settled to have a great weddin' down 
here at the endin' o' Lent ; 

An' J mind the white sloe-flower was meltin' from 
off the black hedges like hail 

In the sunshine, whin back to the Castle the family- 
came wid a dale 

O' grand company, frinds an' relations ; the house 
was as full as a fair. 

But, a couple o' days to the weddin', Kate Doyle, 
that 's in service up there, 

She run in wid a message to say they 'd a kitchen- 
maid tuk to her bed 

Wid the awfulest toothache at all, an' her cheek 
swelled the size of her head ; 



158 MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 

An' they wanted a girl be the week, an' she 'd spoke 

to the misthress for me — 
So I slipped up that night afther supper, as proud 

o' me luck as could be. 



IV 

Thin next day, whin they 'd gone to the dinner, 
Kate showed me the grandeur they 'd got 

Settled out in the library ; all of her presents, a 
terrible lot. 

Sure, I couldn't be tellin' ye half, let alone nigh the 
whole o' the things. 

There was wan o' the tables was covered wid brace- 
lets an' brooches, an' rings ; 

An' the big silver plates did be shinin' like so 
many moons thro' the mist ; 

An' the jugs wid their insides pure gold, an' the 
taypots, an' urns, an' the rist. 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 159 

But the iligant chiney — och saints ! the wee cups 

wid their handles all gilt, 
An' their paintin's o' flower-wrathes an' birds — if 

ye 'd break wan, bedad, ye 'd be kilt. 
An' the jewels, och, the jewels was that purty, I 'd 

ha' sted there star-gazin' all night ; 
There was diaminds like raindhrops that each had 

a fire-sparkle somehow alight, 
An'^the pearls like as if they 'd been stringin' the 

bits o' round hailstones for beads. 
An* the red wans an' green, if a rainbow was sowin' 

ye 'd take thim for seeds ; 
An' the grand little boxes to hold thim, all lined 

wid smooth satin below — 
* Sure, it 's well to be her, Kate,' sez I, an' sez she, 

* Och, begorra, that *s so.* 



i6o MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 



Well, the morn, be the best o' good luck, Kate 

an' I got the chance to slip out, 
An' away wid us off to the church, where the folk 

was all standin' about, 
Tho' it wanted an hour to the time ; an' we 

squeezed to a sate at the door, 
^ That was thrailed round most tasty wid wrathes 

that they 'd put up the evenin' before. 
An' it's there we'd the greatest divarsion be- 

holdin', for afther a while, 
All the guests was arrivin' an' roostlin' in velvets 

an' silks up the aisle. 
Every wan lookin' finer than t'other, wid sthramers 

an' feathers an' lace — 
But the sorra a sign o' the bridegroom was seen 

comin' nigh to the place. 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING i6i 

That was sthrange now ; an' folk did be say in' 
they wondhered what kep' him, an' thin 

It seemed Quality's selves got onaisy, for ye'd 
see the grand bonnits begin 

Niddle-noddin' together to whisper ; an' wan o' the 
gintlemen 'd quit, 

Slippin' out be the little side door, an' look down 
the sthraight road for a bit, 

An' Qpme back, blinkin' out o' the sun, wid a head- 
shake, for nothin' he 'd spied ; 

Till at last, in the heighth o' their throuble, in 
landed Miss Honor — the bride. 



VI 

Och, an' she was a bride ! Not a sowl but was 

wishin' good luck to her groom. 

All in white, like a branch o' wild pear, when ye 

scarce see the stem for the bloom, 

L 



i62 MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 

An' her dark hair just gllntin' wid glames, like the 

bird's wing that sthrakes off the dew — 
Och, a beauty complate, from the crown of her 

head to the point of her shoe. 
Wid her hand on Sir Maurice's arm, an' he lookin' 

as proud as ye plase, 
An' eight iligant bridesmaids behind her, each 

pair dhressed as like as two pase, 
Wid their booquees o' flowers like big stars in a 

thrimble o' fern laves ; ye 'd say 
Be the scint they'd dhropped straight out of 

Heaven ; I remember the smell to this day. 



VII 

But, next minute, in afther thim stepped a 
sthrange gintleman none of us knew. 
In a terrible takin', an' pantin' as if 'twas a bellers 
he blew ; 



/ ' * 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 163 

Wid a yallerish slip in his hand o' the sort they Ve 
for messages tuk 

Off the tiligrumph wires, an' he ups to where 
Quality stared at him, sthruck 

Of a heap like; and somethin' he sez, that I 
couldn't exactually hear, 

But a somethin' the others weren't wishful Miss 
Honor should guess, that was clear, 

For they all wint hush-hushin' ; however, I 'm 
thinkin' she heard what he said. 

And I saw her take hold o' the paper, an' what- 
ever was in it she read. 



VIII 

I misdoubt what's the thruth o' the story. 
Some said all the while he 'd a wife 
In the States unbeknownst, that was somehow 
found out, so he'd run for his life; 



<> 

\ 



i64 MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 

An' some said he was coortin' a Marquis's 

daughther in England instead ; 
But some said it was nought on'y just a fantigue 

he 'd tuk into his head. 
But whatever the raison might be, an' whatever 

had happint amiss, l 

The end of it was, he was never set eyes on from 

that day to this. 



IX 

Sure now, Quah'ty 's quare in their ways ; when 

me cousin ran off to inlist. 
Troth, the bawls of his mother an' sisthers were 

fit to ha' frighted the best ; 
An' last winther whin Norah Macabe had heard 

tell that her sweetheart was dhrowned. 
It's her scrames 'ud ha' terrified nations — ye'd 

hear thim a good mile o' ground. 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 165 

But Miss Honor, as still and as quiet she turned 

back be the way that she came, 
Down the aisle, past the pews wid the people set 

starin' in rows just the same ; 
An' right out to the shine o' the sun, that should 

never ha' lit on her head 
Till she walked wid a ring on her hand, an' the 

girls sthrewin' flowers where she 'd thread. 
So ^he passed thro' the yard, where the folk all 

kep' whisht as the dead in their graves, 
Not a sound in the world save the flutther o' win' 

thro' the ever-green laves. 
An' a lark somewhere singin' like wild up above 

in the high light alone ; 
Till the carriage dhruv off from the gate, an' we 

heard the wheels grate on the stone. 
Thin ould Molly O'Rourke, that stood by wid her 

head in her raggety cloak : 
' Now, the Saints may purtect her,' sez she, * for 

the heart of the crathur is broke.' 



i66 MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 



.y 



An' sure maybe ould Molly was right ; I dunno, 

for they tuk her away, 
To disthract of her mind, so they said, to some 

counthries far over the say ; 
Some most curious onnathural place, where I 'm 

tould the sun 's scorchin' an' hot 
All the year, an' the people is mostly ould nay- 

gurs as black as the pot. 
An' a sthrame thro' it full o' thim bastes o' great 

reptiles that swally ye whole, 
Wid the desolit deserts around, where ye '11 see 

ne'er the sight of a soul ; 
Worser land than the blackest o' bogs, just as 

bare as the palm o' your hand. 
Savin' whiles barbarocious big imiges stuck in the 

midst o' the sand. 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 167 

An' gazabos o' stones stuffed wid bones of the 

hayjus ould haythins inside — 
Ay, in Aygypt — ^belike that 's the name. But, at 

all evints, there she died. 



XI 

Yis, she died, sir ; an' there she was buried, she 

never set fut here agin ; 
An' it 's nought but the truth that her like I 've 

not looked on afore her or sin'. 
An' bad luck, thin, to thim that 'ud harm her. A 

pity — a pity, bedad. 
If ye come to considher the pleasure in life she 'd 

a right to ha' had. 
*Tis the same as a rose-bud that 's torn whin its 

red 's just the brightest to see ; 
Or a linnet shot dead twitterin' soft be its bit of a 

nest in the tree — 



i68 



MISS HONOR'S WEDDING 



So, in spring, whin the hedges is greenin', an' 

cuckoos beginnin' to call, 
Poor Miss Honor I mind, an' her weddin', that 

was never a weddin' at all. 



A CURLEWS CALL 



A CURLEW'S CALL 



\Yhethen is it yourself, Mister Hagan ? an' 

lookin' right hearty you are ; 
'Tis a thrate to behold you agin. You '11 be vvaitin' 

to take the long car 
For Kilmoyna, the same as meself, sir ? They 're 

late at the cross-roads to-night, 
For I mind when the days 'ud be long, they 'd be 

here ere the droop of the light, 
Yet out yonder far over the bog there 's the sunset 

beginnin' to burn 
Like the red of a camp-fire raked low, and no sign 

of thim roundin' the turn. 

171 



172 A CURLEW'S CALL 

So the dark '11 git ahead of us home on this jaunt ; 

we Ve good ten mile to go, 
And thin afther the rain-pours this mornin', we 're 

apt to be draggin' an' slow — 
Ay, you 're right, sir : alongside the road I 've been 

thravellin' you 'd scarce count that far ; 
You '11 cross dark an' light times and agin between 

Creggan and Kandahar. 



II 

And is Norah along wid you ? Well, Norah 

jewel, how 's yourself all this year ? 
Sure she's thin grown and white, sir, to what I 

remember her last time we were here. 
Took a could in the spring ? Ah, begorrah, the 

March win' 's as bad as a blight ; 
But the weather we git in Afghanistan, troth, 

'twould destroy her outright. 



A CURLEW'S CALL 173 

For in summer Ould Horny seems houldin' the 

earth in the heat of his hand, 
And in winther the snow 's the great ghost of a 

world settled down on the land, 
Wid a blast keenin' over it fit to be freezin' the 

sun where he shone ; 
If they 'd lease you that counthry rint-free, you 'd 

do Tighter to let it alone. 



Ill 

Glad enough to be out of it ? Well, in a way, 

but I Ve this on me mind, 
That I'm come like the winther's worst day, after 

lavin' me betthers behind ; 
An' the nearer I git to the ould place at home, it 's 

the stranger I seem, 
Missin' thim I '11 behold there no more till me 

furlough I take in a dream. 



174 A CURLEW'S CALL 

But the divil a dream 's in it now, and I 'd liefer 

dream ugly than think 
What Jack Connolly's folk 'ill remember whinever 

they notice the blink 
Of me coat past their hedge, and I goin' their 

road. Jack's poor mother belike 
'111 be feedin' her bins in the door, or else gath'rin' 

her clothes at the dyke. 
And it 's down to the gate she '11 be runnin' and 

callin', an' biddin' me step in ; 
And she '11 say to me : ' Well, Dan, you 're home, 

and I 'm glad, sure, to see you agin.' 
Ouare an' glad, I '11 be bound, wid the thought in 

her heart of how long she might wait, 
Ere she 'd see her own slip of a redcoat come 

route-marchin' in at her gate ; 
He that 's campin' apart from us, joined wid the 

throop who shift quarters no more ; 
Crep' in under the tent that 's wide worlds beyond 

call, tho' 'twas pitched at your door. 



A CURLEW'S CALL 175 

Ah, the crathur : 'tis poor bits of hope folk take up 

wid whin luck 's turnin' bad. 
She that not so long since 'ud be thinkin' she 'd 

soon git a sight of the lad, 
There she '11 stand wid her eyes on me face, till I 

see all as plain 's if I heard 
How she 's wond'rin', an' dhreadin' to ask, have I 

brought her so much as a word. 
Tkat 's the notion 's come home wid me ; faix, I 

get thinkin' it every odd while, 
Maybe oft as a lamed horse shrinks his fut in the 

lenth of a stony mile. 
You '11 remember Jack Connolly, sir ? Ay for sure, 

'tis good neighbours you 've been 
Since he wasn't the height of your stick, and 

meself but a bit of spalpeen. 
Great the pair of us both were ; out most whiles 

off over the bog and away, 
But the end of it happint us yonder at sunset last 

Pathrick's Day. 



176 



A CURLEW'S CALL 



IV 



The way of it ? Our picket 



.> :. 



be the 



was ridi 

wall of the little white town, 
That 's stuck like a blaiched wasps' nest in the gap 

where the ridge of the hills breaks down, 
And the big flat plain spreads out and about, you 

might say 'twas a bog gone dhry, 
Lookin' nathural enough till you notice, pricked 

up 'gin the light in the sky, 
Their two thin towers, like an ould snail's horns be 

the shell of their haythin dome, 
Peerin' out of a purpose to put you in mind where 

you 've thravelled from home. 
We were ridin' too close ; I remember along on the 

white of the wall 
The front men's helmets went bob, bob, bob, in 

blue shadow, sthretched won'erful tall, 



A CURLEW'S CALL 177 

For the sunbames were raichin' their furthest aslant 

from the edge of the day, 
Where the b'ght ran, dhrained over the earth, Hke 

a wave turnin' back to the say, 
All hot gold. Howane'er, when we past where 

their straight-archin' door opened black, 
Wid the dust-thracks they thramp into roads 

glamin' in at it, off went a crack, 
And ere ever an echo got rappin' the hills, or the 

smoke riz to float, 

'Twas a plunge, and a thud, and Jack Connolly 
down wid him, shot in the throat. 



So be raison of we two bein' neighbours, they 
bid me mind Jack while they went 
To make out what the mischief at all the rap- 
scallion that potted him meant ; 



178 A CURLEW'S CALL 

Some ould objic' wisped up in his rags head and 

fut, the crow's notice to quit, 
Wid a quare carabine 'ud scarce fright e'er a bird 

who 'd a scrumption of wit. 
But 'twas able enough for that job, and be hanged 

to it ; Jack's business was done, 
As you couldn't misdoubt. All the west swam 

clear fire round the smooth, redhot sun, 
Dropped down steady as a shell thro' still wather, 

but 'twouldn't be sunk out of sight. 
Ere the lad had got finished wid dyin', and gone 

beyond darkness and light. 
And between whiles 'twas divil a much could I do 

to be helpin' him ; just 
Keep beside him, and dhrive the black fly -buzz, and 

lift up his head from the dust, 
And hear tell had he aught in his mind. But, och 

man, if his heart was to break, 
Every whisper of voice he had in him was kilt, not 

a word could he spake. 



'i 



A CURLEW'S CALL 179 

Sure now that was conthrary. An instant before 

'twas no odds what he said, 
And he'd laughed, and he'd gabbed on galore, 

any blathers come into his head ; 
But wid on'y a minit to hold all his speech in for 

ever and a day, 
Just one breath of a word like a hand raichin' 

worlds' worlds an' years* years away, 
'Tis- sthruck dumb he was, same as his crathur of a 

baste that stood watchin' us there, 
Wid big eyes shinin' fright, and snuff-snuffin' the 

throuble up out of the air. 



VI 

'Twas a throuble swep' nearer, an* blacker, an* 
surer ; the whole world stood still ; 
You'd as aisy turn back a cloud's shadow, that's 
tuk to slide over a hill. 



i8o A CURLEW'S CALL 

There was Jack wid the life failin' out of him fast 

as the light from the sky, 
That came fingerin' the grass wid long rays, blade 

be blade, an' thin twinklin' up high 
On the gold spark atop their green dome. And 

I thought to meself how the same 
Blamed ould sunset 'ud thrapese away to the west 

till the shine of it came, 
Flarin' red in the bog-houles, an' bright past the 

turf-stacks, and in at the door 
Of the little ould place down the lonin', that Jack 

'ud set fut in no more, 
And 'twould dance on their bits of gilt jugs, till 

they glittered like stars in a row, 
And the people widin at their suppers ne'er thinkin' 

no great while ago 
It was dazzlin' Jack's eyes as he looked for me 

face wid the last of his sight. 
And sez I to him, ' What is it, lad ? ' but I knew 
I might listen all night 



A CURLEW'S CALL i8i 

And no answer ; the sorra a chance to be bringin' 

thim word we 'd ha' found, 
On'y Jack had more sinse in him yet than meself 

that was hearty and sound ; 
For he looked towards the rim of the west wid the 

sun hangin' ready to fall, 
And he whistled two notes quick and low — well I 

knew it : the curlew's call. 



VII 

I 'd not aisy mistake it ; sure out on these bogs 

scarce a minit goes by, 
But anear or afar on the win' comes a flicker of 

the crathur's cry — 
Faith, I heard wan just thin — and on many a day, 

ere the sun 'ud be up, 
And around and around stood the grey of the air 

like a big empty cup 

M2 



i82 A CURLEW'S CALL 

Fit to hold every sound ever stirred, and to catch 

all the light ever shone, 
I 'd be out wid me on to our bogland, all desolit 
lyin', and lone 

As the say whin you 've watched the low shore till 
it dips where the ridges rowl green, 

And I 'd spy was there e'er a wan out, and belike 
not a sowl to be seen 

Save Jack whistlin' away to me down be the lough ; 
you 'd ha' swore 'twas the bird, 

Barrin' just the laste differ ; Jack done it the likest 
that ever I heard. 

And there 's plenty that thry at it. Seldom a sun- 
sit throops out of the west 

But some lad '11 be whistlin' his sweetheart, that 's 
sittin' and Hstenin' her best, 

While the corners grow dark, and she 's reckonin' 
the shadows for 'fraid he might fail. 

So his call lit the world like a star. Ne'er a sweet- 
heart had Jack, I '11 go bail. 



A CURLEW'S CALL 183 

For the truth is his mind was tuk up wid his own 

folk ; it couldn't be tould 
The opinion he had and consait of the whole of 

thim, young wans and ould, 
And it 's there where I 'm bothered entirely to think 

how he got the idee 
To go soldierin' off to the ends of the earth wid 

no comrade but me. 
Howanever, he went of a suddint, afore we knew 

right what was on ; 
And I thought to meself the ould place 'ud be 

quare wid Jack Connolly gone, 
So I up and I down to the barracks below, an' the 

shillin' I tuk— 
That 's the way it fell out, and belike 'twas himself 

had the best of the luck. 



1 84 A CURLEW'S CALL 



■i 



VIII 

And continted and aisy he went, wanst he saw 

he 'd made shift to conthrive 
That the message he had in his mind 'ud go safe. 

For sez I : ' Man alive, 
I '11 be tellin' your people at home the first chance 

I can git, good or bad, 
How thimselves, and the ould place you quit, was 

the last thought that ever you had ; 
And I '11 bid thim be thinkin' of you, whin they 

hear the bird cry on our bog. 
Your poor mother, an' father, an' the childher, an' 

their little ould rogue of a dog. 
Ne'er a wan you 're forgettin',' sez I ; and bedad 

any fool might ha' known, 
For the manin' he meant wid his call was as clear 

as a bugle blown. 



A CURLEW'S CALL 185 

And our rifles wint crack be the gateway, and now 

and agin wid a plop 
Come a bullet dhruv deep in the sand — 'twas the 

divil dhrill-sowin' his crop — 
And a priest legged it up to the top of the tower, 

and stood risin' a yell 
For the rest to be sayin' their prayers, like as if 

'twas our angely bell. 
But it's little Jack heeded j for sure his own folk, 

and th' ould counthry, and all 
Were come nearer than near, and gone further 

than far, along wid that curlew's call. 



IX 



Ah, but Norah, you 're perished an' thrimblin' 
wid could, sittin' here in the win' ; 
Did you bring ne'er a wrap to rowl round you, 
machree, now the night 's closin' in ? 



1 86 



A CURLEW'S CALL 



For there 's mists curlin' white on the pools, and 

the air gits an edge whin they lift. 
Ay, the moon's up, just on'y a breath 'gin the 

blue, where the cloud comes adrift, | 

Sthreelin' by like a haystack on fire, wid the flame 

blowin' off be the way 
In bright bundles and wisps, as if some wan 'ud 

harvest the light of the day. 
'Tisn't that fashion dark falls, out there in the aist. 

Wanst the sun goes on lave, 
Ne'er a thrace of a glame bides to show where he 

passed, like the foam of a wave ; 
He '11 be blazin' wan minit, and thin 'tis the same 

as if somebody shut 
A black door on the blink of a hearth, or kicked 

over a lamp wid his fut. 
So the rest of us rode thro' a night blindin' dark, 

till we'd half the plain crossed. 
And the moon riz ice-clear, wid a shine lyin' thick 

on the grass as hoar-frost, 



A CURLEW'S CALL 187 

You could gather up. And, troth, if our tongues 

had froze stiff, 'tis as much we 'd ha' said, 
Wid Jack Connolly's baste saddle-empty, and 

jerkin' the reins as I led. 
Sure poor Jack had a dale of good-nature ; he 'd 

fooled the ould mare all he could. 
And the crathur went slow-fut and heavy; you 

might think that she understood. 







hi,s 



O/v 



Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, 
at the Edinburgh University Press. 



31^77-2 X 



